


Broken, Discarded Things

by Sarai



Series: Stars from Home [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Charles Xavier tries to move on from the loss of his friends, his goals, and his legs, he finds solace in old friends and a new cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Concept of Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story as part of an attempt to tie together various canons. If something seems markedly against canon, I hope you'll take it with a grain of salt and trust it will be addressed at some point.
> 
> In this chapter and, indeed, throughout the story, various remarks are made about people with disabilities including words which, by today's standards, are very rude, and statements which are demeaning by any standards. This is because I tried to portray someone adjusting to a disability in a realistic way and to write like it was the 1960s in terms of attitudes; it is not meant as a just attitude or my own attitude.

Since his powers manifested, Charles Xavier had mastered many skills. He could be subtle; he could enter a mind unnoticed. He could freeze a small group of people. He could find forgotten memories, control actions, or communicate without a word spoken aloud. The finesse of his skills mattered, not his ability to impact a huge number of people.

The telephone rang again and Charles wondered how many people he could scan before the next ring. Surely not enough and likely not far enough to know who had called, which was a pity.

Knowing who was on the other end of the line would help him decide whether or not to take the call. He wanted not to. It was late. Only weak moonlight trickled in through the windows. The world outside had quieted, in that way the world does to make every snapped twig and rustled leaf blare.

_Riiing._

Maintaining his optimistic demeanor since the missile crisis had been a challenge. How optimistic could anybody be after losing the two dearest people in his life? Raven and Erik were out there somewhere—alive. They were alive, but that was cold comfort when he felt them slipping further and further from him.

Some part of him still expected her to return. With all that had been done to Erik, he still had good in him—but might need more than simple circumstance to find it. Charles knew. He also knew that Raven had once been closer to him than anyone. She might come back.

_Riiing._

In the past weeks, not only had Charles heard no word from Raven, two more friends had distanced themselves. Alex had taken off on a cross-country road trip, with so many double entendres Charles had been sorely tempted to telepathically influence him to leave several days away from being fully prepared, before having to hear one more remark about "seeing areas of exquisite natural beauty" and "hoisting my flag in unexplored territories". Sean, meanwhile, had applied months ago for an internship and decided not to pass up the opportunity.

Alex and Sean were young men used to a degree of independence. They had not abandoned the cause of peaceful mutant/human coexistence, but without the drama of the crisis, they were not ready to devote their lives to it, either. They likely would have stayed, anyway, but this wasn't the place for them. Charles knew that. He knew, and he did not want them looking at him the way they did, reminding him of what he had lost.

That was why he gave them a telepathic nudge out the door.

It was only Charles and Hank left now. Charles would be lying to say this was not disheartening, especially since Hank's choice to remain had likely been heavily influenced by his appearance. Since his experiment went awry and turned him blue and furry, Hank had managed to avoid speaking to anyone new. Where was he going to go, looking the way he did?

_Riiing._

That was the tenth ring of the second call and when Charles pictured who might be calling, he did not picture Raven. He tried, but in his heart he knew it wasn't her. Alex might be calling just to say hello, but knowing Alex, the only likely thing about that was the call coming in the middle of the night.

Charles sighed. He could turn around, clumsily maneuver this stupid, awkward wheelchair to get himself back to bed. Whoever was calling would eventually hang up. How important could it be, after all?

He knew the answer: important enough for ten rings, for two calls. Alex would have given up, Sean would not call at this time of night, and Raven… that was simply the baseless hope of an old man. (Charles had not quite accepted that he was no longer in his twenties. Thirty felt like he ought to be going gray, or worse, bald.) Sometimes Charles felt old and alone, but he knew there was one person who might be calling.

He could go back to bed anyway.

 _Rii_ —

"Moira?"

"Charles, thank God!" Moira's voice was breathless. He heard noise in the background, voices, a door slamming. Without waiting for a response, she hurried on, "I'm sorry to call you so late but it's, I think it could be an emergency."

 _Emergency_. Last time he saw Moira, he was in a hospital bed wishing he had someone with whom he could just be himself and sob and shout over the lost use of his legs. Time before that, he was on a beach with a fresh bullet wound and dozens of warships in firing range.

Since when did their relationship involve the concept of 'emergency'? And what did she want him to do about it? He was a cripple now. Didn't she remember that?

Yet the words that came out of his mouth were, "Where are you?"

"I'm at the police station, I've been working with the local authorities."

The words made him feel tired. Honestly, what did Moira expect of him? His days for heroics were over. He could not even walk! He doubted he would be any use to the police.

Nevertheless, Moira was a friend, and a good one at that. Charles tried to keep the weariness from his voice as he asked, "What sort of emergency is it, Moira?"

"Your sort."


	2. Vehicular Murder-Suicide

The headlights cut a wide path of light across the road. Moira drove like a maniac, far too quickly for her skill and for the rain pelting the windshield. That was one more thing Charles had lost. He never really appreciated driving before. It was something he did because he had to and took for granted.

He would never drive again. He missed it, not least of all because Moira seemed unclear on the difference between 'driving' and 'committing vehicular murder-suicide'.

"I went back to visit you at the hospital," she said, "but they said you'd checked yourself out."

Charles said nothing to that, just turned to look out the window. He had indeed checked himself out. The thought made his expression seem forced and wooden.

Being in the hospital made him feel like such a _patient_ ; Charles found himself struggling to imagine how anyone actually healed in such a place. It depressed him until finally he decided he'd had enough. The doctor told him he needed physical therapy. The doctor also told him he stood no chance of ever regaining the use of his legs, so Charles decided not to bother with the therapy.

He just wanted this to be over. It was not going to be over any time soon, though, was it?

 _Stop feeling guilty, Moira. I told you that day it was not your fault and that hasn't changed._ He thought it to himself, simply tired of discussing this further. Assuaging his friend's guilt and discomfort mattered, but he knew better than to think he could.

They drove a few minutes without conversation. In spite of living in the area much of his life, Charles had never been to the police station.

He saw her gaze flicker to him again and wished she would stop letting her expression twist in sorrow and regret. Did she see anything so much as that bullet?

And couldn't she keep her eyes on the road?

"So you're working with the police."

It was an unapologetic change in subject.

Moira gave a small, terse nod. "I needed a little extra time. As soon as I have time to write up the paperwork, I'll need to explain what happened that day…"

"Explain mutation, you mean."

"I could sound crazy. I could lose my job."

"And it would be dangerous for us."

Charles thought of Alex and Hank. Erik would not let anything happen to Raven, Charles had at least that much comfort. What happened if Moira made available even to a few people the knowledge that an ex-convict could destroy a house, or a brilliant scientist could literally tear someone in half with his bare hands?

Moira nodded again. "But I can't just lie to the CIA."

"No, of course."

Why?

"And it's not just you, Charles. That I might be able to justify, but with someone like Erik out there—you know what he's capable of."

"Yes, I do," Charles agreed, leaving out that he was not sure Moira knew just what Erik was capable of. He knew. He had seen inside Erik's mind. He had seen the anger there, the mistrust, the cold hatred, and the capacity for destruction. Naturally he wanted to believe the best of someone he could not help thinking of as a friend, to believe Erik would make the right choices, but he knew how far from 'right' Erik could go.

Moira had a point. Charles did not see Erik as a personal threat because he knew who Erik's enemies were. They had been Shaw's enemies, too: humans. They deserved to know about this threat, even if they could do nothing to protect themselves. A power like Erik's was beyond even the CIA to contain.

Yet, perhaps if they could do nothing against him, they had no need to concern themselves.

"He's lain low for the past few weeks," he offered.

Cold comfort: Erik was many things, 'rash' not among them. He would formulate a plan and enact it in his own time, and when he did he would be efficient and thoroughly prepared.

"Are you in contact with him?"

"No, and I can't reach him using Cerebro, either."

It was not for lack of trying. Erik seemed to use that helmet at all times. Different days, different times of day, even at night Charles had searched since leaving the hospital.

Erik was gone.

That he had lain low was no guess, however. _Erik_ was beyond his reach. Raven wasn't. Using her as a tool to check up on Erik sat poorly with Charles, but if it was what he had to do, he could make some peace with himself.

Rather than tell this to Moira, he changed the subject to, "You asked me to come with you for a reason." He presumed it was a good one, since she had been willing to drive out and bring him to the station, but her description during the call had been vague at best. "Start from the beginning."

Moira debated silently for a moment. Charles did not need to read her mind to know: it was written on her face. Maybe she did not want the fight of discussing Erik, maybe she simply accepted the urgency of this matter, but whatever the reason, Moira explained, "Earlier tonight, I overheard a couple of officers talking about someone who had destroyed part of a building. Decimated it. Without weapons. The sort of destruction they're talking about, I'm not sure what kind of weapon could manage that. Someone unarmed—that has to be a mutant. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. I'm almost positive, and mutant or not, this kid's in a lot of trouble."

Charles disapproved of mutants using their powers criminally. These special abilities they had were a gift of evolution. Yes, being able to do these things made them special, but it also gave them a heavy obligation too many seemed not to notice.

 _We already are the better men,_ Erik had told him. Not with the way he behaved, Charles thought. Too few seemed to notice the responsibility of their powers.

What was he to do?

As though she had heard his thoughts, Moira continued, "Mutants need needs an advocate and there's no one more qualified than you. Actually… there's no one else qualified at all."

"There's you," Charles observed. Moira was not a mutant, but she was intelligent, open-minded, and decently informed about mutation. He did not argue because he resented being called in but because he heard a pained note in Moira's voice.

"I'm a federal liaison, my hands are tied."

"Is this what you expected when you joined the CIA?" he asked.

"I expected to work for justice."

"Not this."

"Not watching the cops smack around a suspect and being able to do nothing to do about it. All they have is suspicion! After… after the crisis, no one's sure what happened. There's been a theory about Communist experiments…"

That the cops could be violent did not surprise Charles, but he caught the other piece of information.

"How old is this 'kid'?"

"Fourteen, my best guess."

Fourteen. Mutant. Arrested as a Communist experiment-created spy.  
  
Suddenly Charles forgot about tiredness.

He had chosen to leave the younger mutants. He found them, saw many of them using Cerebro, but felt they had their parents and their young lives. They should be in school learning algebra and history and French, not learning to be soldiers. Surely what had happened to Erik so many years ago in Poland could not be happening to anyone in America today.

Young people had parents, siblings, and friends. Some might not have the use of their powers. He had seen no reason to uproot them from familiarity and now felt a twinge of guilt. A building had been destroyed. The people inside it, were they alive? And this teenage kid sitting in a police station…

"Moira, drive faster please."


	3. Look me in the eye

Charles had never actually been inside a police station before. He had been inside CIA buildings, however, and found the police station to be quite different. It was busy in spite of the late hour, not particularly crowded but occupied by people addressing tasks that seemed to be very important to them. Or, he thought, perhaps these were simply self-important people.

There was less sense of money here than in the CIA, though. Few people wore suits. The building looked perfectly serviceable, but used, also, stains on the floor and missing ceiling tiles. It had a feeling of real life to it.

"Miss MacTaggert! We've been looking for you! There's…" The speaker, a young and very tired-looking man in a police uniform, took a look at Charles and trailed off. "Um, there's been some developments."

…real life and a busy atmosphere! They had barely walked in the door before they were swept up in it.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Moira replied. "The suspect brought in earlier, this man is an expert on such unusual conditions, I think he can help."

Charles noticed that Moira did not specify who the recipient of his assistance might be. It was as well she didn't: they both knew he had no intention of helping the police. Even if this young mutant proved to have the worst intentions, Charles would protect him. Mutants needed to look after their own.

The young policeman looked from Moira to Charles, obviously uncertain.

Charles extended his hand. "Professor Charles Xavier," he offered.

He wasn't, technically, because he still had no teaching position, but the title at least earned him a handshake and a response of, "Officer Peter Sullivan."

"I can take him back," the officer said. "Lucky they've kept the freak on the first floor."

Moira nodded and said a hasty goodbye before returning to her own work, leaving Charles with the policeman. The young man seemed unsure what to do. Charles simply waited, watching patiently.

"It's, er, this way."

"Lead on," Charles prompted, when the policeman didn't move.

"Right!" Officer Sullivan seemed almost surprised. "Of course." Apparently involving strangers in police business at the request of a CIA liaison, and a woman at that, was not usually in his job description. Prompted, he led the way to a dim room. Through what he guessed to be a two-way mirror, Charles had a clear view of the young mutant, as well as the two policemen conducting their investigation.

"That's your idea of a Communist?" Charles asked.

Sullivan looked uncomfortable with the question. "The Soviet threat to this country—"

Charles looked through the window again. The probable mutant, proposed Soviet weapon was handcuffed to a desk, hunched over and trembling. What sort of weapon was that? She looked halfway to wetting herself.

"The Soviets," Charles interrupted the officer, "have nuclear missiles."

"I saw what happened out there. It wasn't human."

"I'd like to speak with your suspect." The word dripped disdain. Suspect, that frightened child?

"Probably not a good idea."

"Let me speak with her."

A telepathic suggestion accompanied the request. Bureaucracy was annoying at the best of times. Since the police obviously had no idea what they were dealing with, Charles felt no guilt for cutting through the red tape.

Policy turned out not to be the biggest challenge. That he handled with a slight nudge, barely a twitch in his power. Officer Sullivan stepped in first and explained, “We’ve got a CIA contact, some professor, wants to speak with the kid.”

By the time Charles maneuvered his wheelchair through the doorway, the rather impressive impact of that statement had worn off.

He missed his legs.

Pretending not to notice the stares of the other policemen, Charles made his way over to the desk. Up close, the child looked even more pathetic. For all she tried to hide behind a curtain of filthy hair, she clearly bore signs of a beating: a fresh cut on her lip; an eye bruised, maybe swollen, but it was difficult to gauge with both eyes squeezed shut. She was filthy, her face smeared like she had tried to wash but not quite managed it, and she had the look of someone who had not one day in her life had enough to eat.

And she stank like a dumpster. This, more than anything, Charles noticed, a smell so thick he swallowed the urge to gag.

This was Public Enemy #1? A cowering, homeless-looking kid? _This_ frightened the police?

Charles hoped he would never need the police's help in Westchester. Their sniffer dogs were probably Pomeranians.

"Hello. I'm Charles Xavier."

The girl did not respond.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

The response this time was a scoff from one of the police officers. Really, Charles agreed that the chances of the girl believing him were slim. He agreed because of the cut on her lip. It was fresh. The police were responsible for it.

"And should you have treated a young girl that way, Officer?"

The response was a snicker.

Charles narrowed his eyes, but the officer made a transparent show of stifling his amusement. "As I was saying—" Charles continued, turning back to the girl, "—I won't hurt you. You don't need to be afraid of me."

 _And I'm not afraid of you, either,_ Charles offered, a thought in her head. At the very least, it should have been startling enough for the girl to look at him. She just flinched. _I'm a mutant, like you. I have the ability to read your thoughts. You have an ability, too, don't you?_ After a silent pause, he added, _If you'd like to tell me here, no one else will know._

"How much are you planning to get out of this one-sided staring contest?"

"Be quiet, please, you're not helping," Charles replied, not looking at the policeman with the big mouth. In a very different tone, he suggested to the girl, "Why don't you tell me your name?"

There was no response.

Charles tried not to let his concern show. This was not the situation for him. What was he supposed to say? 'Trust me'? How much weight could that possibly carry with someone who would not so much as look up?

He thought of speaking with Hank. The trouble was that Hank always responded quite clearly. Even if he did not know what to say, his face was an open book and given enough time he would work his way around to the words. The girl sitting across from Charles now had more than shyness to contend with.

"I think you know how much trouble you could be in right now. You've committed some very serious crimes tonight. I want to help you, but I can't do that without knowing your side of the story. Just tell me what happened."

"Don't know why you bother, wouldn't believe a word even if you can eke it out," one of the officers commented.

Probably the same one who had scoffed earlier, Charles guessed, but more important was the sudden flood of images in his head.

“And why on earth should she trust you?” Charles queried. The response was more laughter. “What—”

“’maboy.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, more gently. The ‘suspect’ had finally spoken and the last thing Charles wanted was to frighten her into silence again.

“I’m a boy,” she—or rather, he—repeated. “That’s why they’re laughing.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Not that he was a boy, but for repeatedly referring to him as a girl. Oh, that hadn’t helped anything, had it? But the child was fine-featured and long-haired—an effeminate boy, then, rather than a masculine girl.

“Will you tell me your name?”

“Like I said,” the officer remarked, “does it matter what he says? I never met an honest man so keen to look me in the eye.”

A flood of images responded: the boy's thoughts. 'Look me in the eye' had triggered a strong reaction in him, and with a link already open, Charles suddenly knew why. The memories were jumbled, but one thing stood out clearly: the boy couldn't open his eyes. It seemed his control was limited, and use of his powers would be very destructive.

Charles looked from one officer to the other. "He came in with a pair of glasses, where are they now?"

"They were sunglasses, it doesn't—"

" _Where?_ " Sometimes he did not need telepathy to have his way. Charles was younger than either of the officers, but his voice carried the authority of one not used to being disobeyed.

The officers exchanged an uncomfortable look and one of them handed over a pair of glasses with unusual red lenses. Charles took them and offered them to the boy, then realized first that he couldn't see and second that he couldn't reach with his hands cuffed to the table.

"I'm going to put your glasses on for you, all right? Nod if you understand, please."

The boy nodded.

Charles had never before put glasses on another person. It was awkward and although he tried to avoid the bruise under the boy's eye, he could not help poking the glasses against it.

A whimper and an awkward maneuver later, the lenses obscured the boy's eyes, but anyone could see when he lifted his head. He was still dirty and shaking, but that much engagement made a tremendous difference. Charles felt much more hopeful about this. He wanted to help, he truly did. His powers could only do so much, though. He needed the boy to cooperate.

"There. That's better, isn't it?"

The response was a soft, tense, "I didn't want to do it, I swear."

"I believe you."

"I don't."

Charles turned to face the police officer who had been so eager to add a negative comment to every attempt made at actually communicating with the kid. Yes, he was a homeless-smelling possible criminal with a frightening power, but he was also a scared child.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Charles asked.

“Nope.”

“Go.”

His telepathic suggestion helped scoot the officer out of the room.

When he looked back, he saw that the boy was grinning. "Very, very far out."

"Thank you. Speaking of far out, you're not from around here, are you?"

Charles did not need to see the boy's eyes to know what his expression said: _neither are you._

"Nor am I," he agreed cheerfully enough, "I'm from England originally. And you… Illinois?" It was a complete shot in the dark. The boy's accent was Midwestern. It was slight but noticeable on certain vowel sounds. More than that, without delving into his mind, Charles would simply have to use process of elimination. "Wisconsin?" He really should have paid more attention in geography classes.

"Please."

"All right. We can talk about something else, perhaps what's happened tonight? I understand if you wouldn't like to, but it's rather important at the moment. There was someone else with you. Someone who got away."

The boy nodded.

"Was he the one who hurt you?"

Another nod, more hesitant this time.

"How old are you really?"

"Eighteen." The response came too quickly, and without enough indignation to be true.

"No," Charles replied, a note of amusement in his voice, "you're not eighteen." Eighteen was not even close to plausible. "Thirteen?" He intentionally guessed low. At that age, he had hated being thought of as younger. Maybe the boy would be keen to correct him.

He wasn't.

"Then how about your mutation. You've experienced what my mutation can do. It looks like you have a considerable power—"

"No."

Charles suppressed a sigh. They did not have time for this. Didn't the boy realize he could land himself in juvenile detention? Prison, if he insisted on claiming to be eighteen.

A moment later, Charles realized the 'no' had not been in answer to his question. The boy repeated it, this time trying to yank his arms free so hard the desk shifted and the handcuffs left red marks on his wrists.


	4. The greater of two evils

"No! No, no, no, not again, not again!"

The words were accompanied by violent bursts as the young mutant tried to free his hands. They remained handcuffed to the desk, which the desk scraped and jolted against the floor.

"Calm down." For the first time, Charles wondered if being alone with this kid was such a great idea. "I can help you, but you need to calm down."

It did no good. Authority won over adults, not half-hysterical teenagers.

"Take a breath."

Accompanied by a telepathic suggestion, the words made the boy pause and breathe. The way he looked around the room then reminded Charles of a cornered animal, one that knew it was prey. When he looked at Charles, though, something different crossed his face. He fixed on him like the only thing in the room shy of terrifying—a stranger who controlled minds.

He should have been terrified.

"M-my name is Scott Summers, I'm from Nebraska, I'm fifteen years old. Please, I'll do whatever you want, I'll go to prison, I don't care, just don't make me go back with him. Please."

"I won't." Charles did not know what he had just promised would not happen, but whatever it was, he felt determined to make good on his promise.

This was a very serious situation, so Charles did not feel too bad for searching Scott’s mind.

He found his answer quickly enough. The latest memories were most readily available, the man behind the crimes, a man with fists hard as stones and an utter unwillingness to tolerate disobedience. It explained the gap between the seriously damaged building and a boy who did not seem capable of so much as kicking a puppy. He truly hadn't meant to do it, Charles saw.

More of Scott's memories followed quickly. They were jumbled and incomplete, each little more than a puff of smoke.

Reading an age from a person's memory was difficult, but the way he cried at the searing pain in his head, he could not have been more than seven. There were dozens of such memories, some of pain, some of simply being treated as a weapon and an object, but all that had worn away at him. He had not known why and he had not been able to defend himself.

As far back as Scott's memories went, they were filled with pain. Charles did not dig, did not have the time to dig and did not need to. He knew as much as he needed to understand.

He looked at Scott's wrists, now ringed in red from yanking against the handcuffs, and at the bruise beneath his eye. From Scott's memories, Charles knew this was far from the worst of it. That showed only in the carefully measured breaths. What a life this boy had led, that the lesser of two evils left him handcuffed in a police station with bruised ribs.

"Scott, nobody is ever going to hurt you again. He won't even be able to find you."

_You never have to steal again._

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Charles realized how dreadfully similar the two promises had been. He meant it, too. Just as strongly as he had meant his promise to Raven, he meant his promise to Scott.

"He did."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you were a mutant," he recalled urgently, "and you said I'm one, too. What does that mean?"

The timing seemed somewhat inappropriate for an impromptu lesson in evolutionary sciences. "Basically, it means you're just like everyone else, only with a special ability. My mutation allows me to read other people's thoughts and communicate through their minds."

"So you were never like me?"

Charles wanted to reply that he had been like Scott. He had been confused and felt isolated by his abilities, thought himself perhaps alone in the world. While he had previously never felt that to be untrue, Scott's circumstances were outside of what Charles could understand: the loneliness, the desperation, the utter lack of control over his abilities.

There was a difference between having no one like one’s self and having no one at al.

"Not exactly."

The door opened suddenly. Scott slumped back in his chair and stared dully at the table.

In stepped the same snide police officer who had remarked sarcastically on much of what Charles had said earlier, his mouth twisted into an ugly smirk. "You've got friends in high places, boy," he said, indicating his companion.

With him was a smartly dressed man, approaching middle age. Upon looking at him, Charles instinctively wanted to trust the man, to trust the way he smiled like the filthy lost kid was not so unwanted after all.

"Hello, Scott."

Scott's head was down again, his shoulders hunched.

"Hello, Mr. Milbury."

The man crossed the room and settled his hand on Scott's shoulder. It could have been a kind, protective gesture, perhaps looked that way to others. To Charles it seemed threatening and possessive. He saw the slight shift as Scott tried to move away and the way Milbury's grip tightened.

"You're becoming more trouble than you're worth!" There was a note of something reaching for but not quite attaining humor. For the first time, he looked at Charles and offered a long-suffering, “Teenagers.”

And, to his horror, something in the man’s warm smile had Charles smiling right back.

Once more he addressed Scott, "It's taken every connection I have to clear up this patch of trouble you've landed yourself in, and the question remains: whatever am I going to do with you?"

Scott replied softly, "I'm sorry, sir."

“You should be.” This time he did not bother hiding the threat in his voice.

Charles had no idea what would happen to Scott, but leaving with Milbury was out of the question. The issue of 'right' and 'wrong' did not even enter his mind. The options now were 'possible' and 'unthinkable', because as much as Charles wanted to trust this man, he knew better.

This was the creature from Scott’s memories.

This was the greater of two evils.


	5. Technically kidnapping

"…running away, arrested, you're a bit old for dramatics…"

Scott had barely listened as Milbury smooth-talked the police, just as he barely listened now. Nothing mattered, not Milbury, not the dime-sized drops of rain pelting them, nothing.  
  
He felt a pit open and the world swallow him whole into gaping darkness. He felt shaken, half numbed. He stumbled as Milbury led him out of the police station. When they stepped out into the rain, Scott did something he had not done in weeks, something he did not do when he climbed onto that freight train to run away from Nebraska, not when he hopped off and did not even know which state he stood in.

He looked back.

"…back home, to be sure, but…"

The building glowed behind him. His glasses did not tint the darkness and the smear of rosy red stood out against an otherwise colorless landscape. That man in there… Scott had never before considered that there might be others like him, even a word for someone like him.

Milbury called him special, unique, and other words that made Scott's skin crawl and made him want to claw his own eyeballs out. He wasn't. He wasn't special. He wasn't unique. Most important of all, he wasn't _alone_.

Except for the distance growing between him and someone who knew the answers and spoke to him with kindness.

"…going to pay for this. You have to understand…"

For almost as long as he could remember, Scott had been a subject for Milbury. There were a few glimpses of before: flying, flames, something blue, a soft toy and a crying baby… but it that had been a lifetime ago and then some. His life had consisted mostly of baseball, homework, and being bullied at the home—all things he had to get around to outside of Milbury's experiments.

It happened so long and from such an early age that for years Scott did not question this. He hated it, but did not question it. At least, not until the past couple of years. Then he started to wonder why. He wasn't bad. He didn't get into trouble. He was relatively tidy. Why did this happen to him?

"…make you understand…"

Mr. Xavier was the first person who had given a reason. It happened because he was different. Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, because he had no parents or other family, but it happened to him rather than another foundling because he was a mutant.

That might have been a tough word for some people to hear, but not Scott. He had been a _foundling_ for years. "Mutant" was easy enough to accept after that. It felt strange more than objectionable, but Scott accepted the word because it came from an adult who seemed confident and authoritative.

He wished he knew what it meant. Now he never would, and the loss of that knowing welled up, pressing against his throat.

"Are you listening to me?"

He wasn't. The words vaguely filtered into Scott's mind and promptly out of it again. He was more occupied with thoughts on ‘mutant’. What did that mean, exactly? It hadn't happened recently. Should he have mentioned that? Scott half-remembered the blast that took out the hospital roof when he was little.  
  
Was he just born this way?

"Scott. Scott!"

The last call caught his attention. Or rather, the slap that accompanied the last call caught his attention. Scott did not move, did not even straighten his head. Tears gathered and he blinked them back. If he gave himself any leeway to weep for the pain, the loss of understanding, of that inexplicable caring from a complete stranger… he would cry himself dry.

"You have no idea how much trouble you're in, do you?"

Everyone kept saying that: the police, Mr. Xavier, now Milbury. None of them seemed to understand. _Trouble_ was so far beneath his concerns right now! Going back to Milbury, that was a major concern, but even that barely mattered more than this sudden revelation.

 _He was a mutant._ There were others like him. And he would never see them again.

The lack of response had not been the right answer and Scott too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice. Milbury grabbed his arm and yanked, sending Scott sprawling. Scott pulled his knees to his chest and shielded his head.

"You don't know, but you will. Listen to me, boy—" and then he stopped speaking, right in the middle of a sentence. The silence stretched on, until Scott risked looking up. Milbury stood, unmoving. He was still as a statue—poised like some vicious gargoyle, but like a gargoyle, motionless.

_On the contrary, you know exactly how much trouble you're in, don't you, Scott?_

He recognized that voice and glanced around for the speaker.

_You can't see me. I'm around the side of the building. This is entirely your choice, but if you'd like to come with me I can protect you and teach you how to control your ability._

Scott barely knew the man. He did not know where he would go if he followed Xavier, what the man wanted with him. Things can happen to children on their own. A few weeks ago, he had jumped onto a freight train just to get away. The real question was, would he do the same thing again?

Scott looked once more at the frozen figure of Mr. Milbury. Then he scrambled to his feet and ran to the side of the building.

_Other side, I'm afraid._

Scott thought something obscene. Was he the only person hearing someone else's thoughts right now? He hoped so, or he really would have tried not to think that.

As he came to the opposite side of the building, he noticed a dark-colored car idling.

_Yes, that one._

So his thoughts were being read, too. Scott cursed again. He opened the door and slid into the back of the car, anyway.

There was another adult, a woman, which surprised him. She sat in the driver’s seat, her head stiffly forward, while Mr. Xavier turned. "Nice to see you again, Scott. This is Moira MacTaggert. Moira, you already know Scott."

She did?

Moira said nothing to him, instead responding with, "I don't like this, Charles."

"I know, and you've been very good about going along with it. Please drive."

She did, guiding the car carefully around to the front of the police station. Scott slid down in his seat, wishing he could make himself invisible. Now that would be a useful mutation! If reading thoughts was possible, why not going unseen?

As his body recognized the car’s heat, Scott began to shiver. He rubbed his bare arms, reflecting that the next time he ran away he would do so with a coat.

They were just turning onto the road when Milbury became reanimated. Scott saw him look around, confused, and grinned.

“He doesn’t know you exist.”

“What?”

“Milbury,” Mr. Xavier supplied. “I’ve erased his memories of you, and—good god, you must be freezing.” He shrugged off his sweater and offered it to Scott. Flooded with a new kind of numbness, Scott took it and forgot what one does with a sweater. He just held it, stunned.

People did not do kind things for Scott. There had been teachers, now and again, who would tell him when he had done well, but nobody ever tried to help him like this. He clung to the sweater.

“Scott?”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” The remark felt insufficient, but Scott had nothing else to offer. He tugged the sweater on. Every piece of clothing he had worn since he was six years old had been secondhand at least. Granted, he rarely knew the person whose clothes he wore, but wearing borrowed clothes didn’t bother him.

The adults carried on with their conversation: "I should put this in the report."

"Moira, you can't. He—can we talk about this another time?"

"Have you thought about what you're doing?" she asked, her voice lower. Was that her idea of speaking so Scott wouldn't hear? It didn't work. He heard, all the more fascinated because it sounded like a secret.

"Of course I have. Have you?"

"Yes!" Her voice rose again, then pointedly lowered, “You realize this is technically kidnapping.”

“Scott, you’re free to leave any time you like.”

“That isn’t what I meant! Do you think this is why I called you?"

"I think this is exactly why you called me. You knew I would do what you couldn't."

Moira and Charles continued their discussion, but Scott found his attention waning. He strained to focus as his head drooped to lean against the window. They were talking about him. Yet as the lights turned to trees rushing past the window, he caught less and less of what was said.

"This isn't like the last time. They were adults, it was different."

"I don't think he has anywhere else to go."

"That is not the point and you know it."

His eyelids were so heavy. He could just rest them, just for a few seconds.

After a few seconds' lull in the conversation, Moira returned, sounding annoyed, "You can't just appoint yourself the head of this, you know."

"Besides being one of the world's leading experts on genetic mutation, you mean?"

"Stop it. I know what you want to hear and I'm not playing along."

"All right, but it was you who wanted me involved. Just remember that."

"You volunteered! I only…"

The last thing Scott remembered was the conversation turning to the Soviets and something about missiles. His last conscious thought was that he should probably be scared.


	6. Fish Walk on Land and Rain Falls Up

Since returning from the hospital, Charles had not drunk a single cup of coffee, mostly because he didn't much care for coffee. This morning he felt he had no choice. Last night had proved very tiring and he had slept little; he could not afford to coast through the day half-asleep. Now the kettle was on and a clean tea towel lain out.

"'Morning, Charles."

"Good morning, Hank."

Although Hank was probably closer in age to Scott, Charles thought of him as a colleague. A colleague in _what_ he was not sure. Mutation? Perhaps they were simply colleagues in life. Hank was an adult and free to do as he wished, whereas Charles would feel obligated to comment if Scott swore out loud nearly as much as he did in his thoughts.

He had learned a few creative new obscenities already—not that a person could do all those things with a duck, at least without a very good-natured animal and even then not all at once.

"Was Moira here last night? I thought I heard her."

"Yes," Charles replied, carefully spooning coffee grounds onto the tea towel, "and I need to speak with you about why."

"Sure. Why, uh, why was she here? Is everything okay?"

Charles heard the hesitation. He heard what Hank had started to say, too: _why are you doing that with the coffee?_ "She discovered a new mutant last night. He was in a difficult situation and, for the time being, he's going to be staying here with us."

Neither of them acknowledged openly why Hank had not left in the past weeks, but it was mutually accepted that he did not like people seeing him.

Charles respected that. He understood: he did not like the way people looked at him, either. Leaving Scott with Milbury had not been an option, though, and with a choice between a friend's comfort and a child's safety, possibly his life… he believed Hank would understand, once he met Scott.

That was assuming Scott would be halfway polite when he met Hank.

Hank nodded.

The kettle whistled. Charles turned off the burner. He liked to think he approached problems creatively and solved them appropriately, but as he fitted the tea towel into the percolator, he felt nothing more than foolish. What he wouldn't do for a decent cup of coffee… well, besides admit to Hank that he had left the filters in the cupboard beside the tea leaves.

This left him in exactly the same situation regarding tea, which was at least twice as unfortunate because Charles quite liked tea.

Now he just wanted a nice, highly caffeinated drink to start the day, so here he was, pouring hot water through a tea towel.

Once he had a decent amount of coffee, Charles joined Hank at the table. It was surprisingly difficult to do. He needed both hands to move the wheelchair evenly and could not exactly hold the mug with his knees. A few moments of awkward maneuvering and Charles had spots of coffee on his shirt and trousers. His mood felt just as stained, but at least he was at the table.

Hank, meanwhile, had become apparently fascinated by his Corn Flakes.

For a while they sat, both painfully aware of their inability to think of a thing to say to one another. Hank crunched his cereal, the coffee sloshed audibly in Charles' mug, and a soft rain started up. Charles considered commenting on the rain but didn't. He could not bear to sound that desperate for conversation, never mind that he was that desperate.

"How's Moira?" Hank asked, finally.

"Oh, she's fine. She's putting off doing a report of the… incident, working with the local authorities for a while."

"Mmm."

They lapsed into another awkward silence. Before it could stretch too long, Charles felt a new arrival. Although not exactly reading anybody else's thoughts, he was aware of the nearness of other minds. He counted to thirty. When nothing happened, he called, "Come in, Scott."

Scott shuffled into the room and stood, awkward. He had found the shower, at least—last night he had been so exhausted, Charles wasn't sure how much he really heard. Without the tangles, his hair hung nearly to his shoulders. He was wearing the same filthy clothes, but it was an improvement.

"This is Hank McCoy. He lives here, as well. He's a scientist. Hank, this is Scott Summers."

The uncertainty was clear. Charles found himself holding his breath and stopped. So far as Charles knew, Scott was the first new person Hank had spoken to since the day he transformed. It was a test of Hank's fear. Maybe, Charles thought, he could have spoken to Scott, but how exactly do you prepare someone for an interaction with a kind, gentle, giant, fuzzy, blue person?

Scott hesitated. He shifted, prepared to take a step back, then extended his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. McCoy."

The sound of his voice did not quite match the words and he did not look at Hank, but it was the best Charles could have hoped for.

Hank shook Scott's hand. He said nothing of Scott's flinch, but it registered in his expression. "You too. And you don't need to call me 'Mr. McCoy'. Hank is fine."

"Oh. Okay, Hank." Scott looked between the two men, only very briefly at Hank. "May I…"

Charles considered using his telepathy to determine what Scott wanted, but held back. He believed in helping people tackle obstacles in a way that enabled them to stand on their own two feet—which, in this case, meant managing a complete sentence.

Still, he would have needed to feign blindness, deafness, or stupidity not to notice that Scott was staring at Hank's cereal with a look that could only be described as yearning.

"Oh—right, of course. Take whatever you like. Always. You don't ever need to ask permission to eat."

"Thank you."

Charles could not respond to that. He had as much pride as anyone, more than quite a few, but he did not want appreciation for addressing a basic human need. As Scott went to get something to eat, Charles looked to Hank.

Hank shrugged and mumbled something about not caring.

At a gestured invitation, Scott joined them a few minutes later. He sat down, eyes on the table, doing all he could to curl around himself. Charles found himself fascinated by the way Scott ate and very conscious of his efforts not to stare. It was strange, though—and saddening. Scott had both hands wrapped around an apple and never moved it far from his face.

No one was going to take it away from him. Charles wanted to say as much. He kept the thought to himself, instead, uncertain how it would impact the boy to hear. He was frightened enough already. Charles had seen Scott's memories. He had been in Scott's mind when Milbury knocked him over last night, too, and knew that any wrongdoing in the past was met with violence.

Surely discussing that kind of mistreatment now, casually, was the wrong subject. What, then? It was just about all Charles knew about Scott: he was a mutant with a powerful ability and a history of people hurting him to control him.

"What grade are you in at school, Scott?" Charles asked. When the others had first moved here, not nearly so long ago as it felt, they had all been adults. Scott was young enough that he belonged in a classroom.

"Eighth."

"That’ll be junior high school, then."

Scott nodded slightly, still clinging to the apple, though less than half of it was left.

"Well, if you're going to be here any length of time we'll have to do something about that. There's probably no point even thinking about school now, though. They'll be letting out for Christmas break soon."

It was enough to make Scott pause. He chewed for a few seconds, swallowed, and asked, "I'm going to school?"

Charles could not help laughing for a moment. "I should think so, you're fifteen," to which Scott said something so soft Charles had to ask him to repeat himself.

"I think," he said. "I'm not… sure."

"Well, when were you born?"

"May I be excused, please?"

In general, running away solved nothing. Somehow Charles just knew that if he said that, Scott would agree with him, same as Scott would have agreed if he said fish walk on land and rain falls up. "Yes, go ahead."

Scott did not need to be told twice.

Charles waited until he was out of earshot, then looked to Hank, who had been quietly eating his breakfast throughout the conversation. "That was not precisely what I had hoped it would be," Charles admitted. He had not thought before about what he wanted, but if he was really honest with himself, when Scott walked in he had hoped for at least a few civil words. This had been closer to timid than civil.

Hank nodded.

Much as Charles wondered about what exactly he could do to reach Scott, he knew Scott's reaction had impacted Hank, too. "It just happened."

Hank half laughed. "If you say so, Charles."

Charles raised his head sharply. He did not expect sycophancy. If anything, he relied on Hank to be honest with him. Still, the answer surprised him. "Moira called me last night, I had no way of knowing—"

"You're right," Hank ceded. "But… well, come on, things like that… they don't just happen. He's here because you want him to be here. The way you… I dunno, you…." He trailed off, then cleared his throat and changed the subject, "He's not much smaller than Sean."

"What are you thinking?"

"Sean left some of his clothes. Maybe Scott could use them."


	7. A Book of Poetry

Scott had a knack for making himself scarce. Charles did not bother looking but with his mind. No matter how self-sufficient, no matter how independent, no matter how light-footed a person might be, there is no hiding from a telepath.

There is out-maneuvering a man in a wheelchair, though. To level the playing field, on his third attempt at a conversation with the boy, Charles dipped into his mind and froze him.

"Hello, Scott."

Scott startled, re-awakening, and nearly dropped the book in his hands. It was outside that Charles had finally caught up with him. The weather had turned pleasant, unseasonably so for a December morning, with weak sunshine and a break in the cloud cover.

"Hello, Mr. Xavier."

"You can call me Charles if you like."

Scott only nodded in response.

He wasn't going to say 'Charles'.

"Did you want your book back?" he said, instead. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have taken it. I mean, I thought I would get it back before…"

"No, take your time with it." Charles looked at the book, then at Scott, interested because he felt like he might really be seeing a glimpse of the boy for the first time. He was not hidden behind fear or desperation. Oh, there was fear, absolutely— _how long until he breathed without apologizing for it?_ —but the boy who flinched and cowered, the boy who asked permission to eat, had taken a risk for a book of poetry.

So that's who he was.

"Do you like to read?"

That Scott liked to read seemed obvious. He valued reading. The question was an attempt to make him talk, not meant to extract information.

Scott answered silently once more, with a nod.

"You found the library, then."

Another nod.

Charles did not read as much as he liked people to think. He was sharp, but far more interested in science. Genetic variation held his interest better than rhymes and scanning.

"It's good someone can get some use out of it," he said, of the library. "Borrow whatever you like. Just be careful with the books and return them when you've read them."

Getting a response seemed hopeful. Scott visibly swallowed and worked his jaw, but after a few seconds he just nodded.

Charles sighed and looked outward. Everything was green and glistening. It was quite pretty, really. Charles wished it wasn't. He wanted the world to look miserable, to justify how miserable he felt on the inside.

It had become a common thought since the crisis. Since the bullet. Today it felt less venomous. His thoughts were less on his own situation.

"You know," he said, "it's only the plants this way. You could take your glasses off. There's no danger."

Scott shifted awkwardly. "Are you telling me to?"

"No, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but there are safe places here. There's even a bomb shelter designed against nuclear weaponry. I doubt you could do much damage there!"

The offer, half-suggested, of a safe place to use his powers elicited no response. After a moment, Charles changed the subject.

"I want this to be a safe place for all mutants, but this is complicated by your age." He had not read Scott's entire life of memory, had only seen the memories that boiled to the front in emotional moments. "You have no other family?"

Scott looked at his book. Watching him was almost painful, he was so withdrawn. Even if he could have made eye contact, he wouldn't have, not then. "No."

"I'm so sorry." Although he knew a bit about absent parents and had his own fresh wounds over the loss of loved ones, Charles kept his personal stories to himself. Bonding over emotional trauma and lost childhoods could wait until later.

Scott shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"And then Mr. Milbury looked after you."

Scott nodded. "At the home," he supplied.

He called it 'the home', not 'home', but the real clue came from the image Charles saw in Scott's mind. "An orphanage?"

"The State Home for Foundlings in Omaha. Will you send me back to him?" he asked, and his tone surprised Charles. Having seen the way Milbury treated him, Charles would have expected some fear at the thought of returning, some shadow of the defiant, frantic, terrified boy he had seen last night. Instead, Scott sounded resigned.

Charles could not imagine sending Scott back to that life. Last night, when he was in Scott's mind and saw Milbury beginning to beat him for running away, Charles had thought it idiotic. Surely the boy had enough sense and strength in him to run away again. He had come so far the first time.

Now he understood. Scott would not have run a second time. Something must have happened, something big, to make him leave, because over the past years his spirit had been crushed into submission.

"No," Charles said.

No, he would not send Scott back to Milbury. The very thought of it bothered him. He did not hurt people, nor send vulnerable kids into danger unless he has absolutely no choice.

Because his first answer had not felt like quite enough, he added, "Never."

Only after he had said it did he realize what he promised with those words. He meant to give Scott a safe place to stay, but he needed more than safety. He was only fifteen. He needed guidance. That was what Charles had promised, wasn't it, what he had intended from the moment he saw Scott in the police station.

Scott didn't need someone to train him. He needed someone to _help_ him. It really was unfortunate, Charles thought, because what did he know about kids? He could barely get this one to talk.

It had been so much easier with Raven. She needed a friend as much as he did and friendship was uncomplicated at that age. Besides, all Raven had been was alone, not hurt, not like Scott. Charles's thoughts felt just as jumbled as his at the moment, intermingled strands of loss—his friend, his youth, his legs, his _purpose_ —and a question he did not know how to answer.

What was he supposed to do about Scott? For that matter, what _could_ he do?

"It's not," Charles began, and abruptly stopped. He was talking to himself. While he had been lost in thought, Scott had disappeared.


	8. Distant Strains of Triumph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Scott reads in this chapter is "Success is counted sweetest" by Emily Dickinson.

For the next few days, Charles may as well have lived alone in a house so vast its emptiness weighed on him. The only area they all frequented was the kitchen. Scott and Hank were meticulous and the only sign either of them had been there would be the dishes left to dry. Both seemed wholly engaged with their own pursuits.

Charles liked looking into their minds for moments at a time. It was invasive and in a way quite rude, but he could not suppress the utter envy he felt. Was he truly past his prime? He was only thirty! He was too young to be old!

For years, nothing mattered more than studying mutation, understanding how someone like him or Raven came to be. It had been his passion, his life, his oxygen. His passion gave his life meaning. Charles had never thought that realizing his dreams might leave his heart rent and his body broken.

He had dreamed so far. Hubris, he supposed. Pride goeth before a fall, and all of that. He had lived his life with a faith that carried him through every hardship—although it was difficult to think that he had ever truly experienced hardship. So many others had suffered so heavily. Before this year Charles had never known such challenges, only minor setbacks.

All of this went through his mind as he lay in bed, his mind ghosting into Hank's.

Charles understood theory extremely well. He could talk about evolutionary patterns, species competition, scarcity of resources, vestigial traits… but when he saw through Hank's eyes, he had no idea what he was looking at. Those were certainly cells under that microscope. Animal cells. Beyond that, Charles had no idea.

Hank had been at this for some time. His thoughts were filled with terms Charles did not know and previous experiments of which Charles had been unaware. He found the best thing for Hank was to be given free rein for his curious, industrious nature. Besides, there was simply no keeping up with him. Charles might be smarter than most and an authority in his own field, but he was no match for Hank.

As Charles watched, his presence unnoticed in Hank's mind, the younger man added something to a petri dish. He observed, paused to scribble a note, then observed again.

Hank had not slept in at least thirty-six hours and barely knew it. This project had his full attention. And his hands! They were big, furry, and blue, but still able to make careful, exact motions. His looks might have changed, but his abilities hadn't.

Charles opened his eyes—his own eyes, not Hank's. His mind had returned home to roost.

Opening his eyes did not actually do any good. It was childish, but he thought, why not, he was already sulking. So earlier that morning, about the time he decided he would not bother getting out of bed today, Charles had pulled the covers over his head.

A small collection of bottles littered the floor near his bed. Not for the first time, Charles thought that he needed rather desperately to clean up. Then he groped blindly until he found a bottle that felt heavy enough. He brought it to his mouth and drank flat, tepid beer from last night if not before. It was not nearly enough to take the edge off. He did not get even a mild sense of satisfaction, just a dribble of beer from the corner of his mouth.

Charles sighed. This had not always been his life. He had, once, been a promising, hard-working young man. He had a doctorate, for crying out loud!

He had a copy of his dissertation… somewhere. Somewhere nearby. Where had he put it? Charles thought about finding it and reading a few pages. Maybe, just maybe, the sight of those words and the smell of the ink would take him back to a time when his mind kindled with hope.

Would that be better or worse? The truth was that Charles had believed in himself and worked hard and realized his dream, for a few brief, shining moments. He and his peers had averted a nuclear crisis that could have caused untold damage.

Then he had lost his closest friend, his sister, and the use of his legs. He had felt unspeakable pain as a coin sheared slowly through Shaw's mind—he still dreamt it sometimes, the nightmare of that pain. For a while, they had been heroes. Had it been worth it? Intellectually, Charles believed it had. Emotionally…

He diverted away from that question. Instead, he searched for Scott.

That was always somewhat less certain. Scott, Charles had learned, liked to find some place quiet and private to hide and read. (There was no place really secret, not from someone who had grown up here, but it felt that way.) He read anything he could get his hands on, with a surprising fondness for poetry.

Sometimes a memory surfaced, unbidden, overwhelming his mind. Charles had experienced that only once. A bad memory surfaced and Scott curled his shoulders, ducked his head, closed his eyes, and covered his ears. It was like he wanted to shut the memory out, like he thought he could.

Of course, for all he had been through, Scott was still a fifteen-year-old boy. That was what made Charles hesitant. There were some things he did not want to know and did not have any right to know. Being in his mind when Scott suddenly remembered an experiment was one thing. It related to his mutation and was factual. Reading his mind while he did what all teenage boys do—it had been an accident, had lasted only a moment, but it was enough to make Charles glad he did not need to look Scott in the eye.

Charles risked it. A glance told him Scott was, as usual, reading, this time by flashlight. Hidden away somewhere, he whispered the words aloud as he read them. Where he was, Charles could not say. That was unusual. It was easily enough explained, though. Scott was someplace dark, hiding.

"As he, defeated, dying,  
On whose forbidden ear  
The distant strains of triumph  
Burst agonized and clear!"

The words were familiar. He had read them before. Charles tried to recall when, the name of the poem or poet, but had only a moment to think. A sound interrupted, a loud sound that startled both of them. Charles felt the burst of pain as Scott raised his head quite suddenly and smashed it.

Under the bed. It was the last thought before Charles withdrew, the realization that Scott was hiding under the bed.

The sound came again. Charles recognized it now. He sighed against the covers still lying over his face. That stupid sound! He was not sure why he felt so resentful. Last time, that sound helped him find Scott. Even though they had barely spoken and the boy still seemed somewhat afraid of him, Charles was glad to have him here.

A ringing phone meant getting up, though. It meant pushing back the covers and dealing with that thing he had worked so hard to ignore: reality.

And then he would have to talk to someone.

Enduring the emptiness of a home with three quiet, withdrawn men rattling around inside was nothing when he thought of what could have been. Hank and Scott were not social. The silence now felt oppressive but natural. If it had been Sean and Alex, Charles could only imagine how wrong that silence would feel. It would begin not with a boy too scared to speak and a man living in a world of molecules, but words held back and words not found.

He sat up. The room was dim. Even turning on a lamp had seemed like too much effort that morning. He had seen the dim specter of his wheelchair and could not bear it. The thing was there, of course. Still there.

The phone stopped ringing. Charles waited. Fifteen seconds passed, then the ringing started up again. It cut into him, too loud and too close, but he had moved a telephone in here for a reason.

"Hello?"

He was glad the phone carried sound and not images, that the person on the other end could not see that his room was littered with beer bottles and dirty clothes, and that he had stretched out his arm and just barely managed to grab the receiver. He had been, all his life, hard-working and proud. He felt something quite different now.

He felt ashamed.


	9. Poor Choice of Words

_Scott, come here, please._

Phrasing his telepathic statement as a request was pointless, Charles knew that. He might not be the most perceptive man alive, but he was not a complete idiot. He understood that Scott would do anything he suggested. What a dangerous power to have over another human being!

It was strange. Charles could control others with his mind, if he wished, and he had always felt the responsibility of that. Scott was different. Charles did not need to suppress his free will because Scott did that himself through a policy of seemingly unlimited appeasement—and that made Charles more uncomfortable than his telepathy.

Charles pushed the thought away as he shut the front door and wheeled back to the kitchen. Hank was there, looking blue and sullen.

"You know, sooner or later we're all going to need to get over it," Charles said.

"Easy for you to say."

"I'm a cripple, Hank."

"I'm… I'm a beast."

Charles sighed and shifted the pizza onto the table. He had never learned to cook beyond peanut butter sandwiches and strangely chewy noodles. There had been one attempt at bacon. It was half-burnt, half-raw and started a small fire. He never tried again—and he didn't like peanut butter much.

Before now, it had never mattered. Raven was much more useful in the kitchen and she had never seemed to mind—especially since she had no qualms about pointing out that since she had cooked, he should do the washing up.

Now Hank reached for the box and Charles stopped him with the request, "Would you get the plates, please?"

It was one more thing Charles could not reach. He had been using the dishes left out to dry rather than admitting that he could no longer access the others.

If Hank saw that much in the request, he gave no sign of it; he just went to the cupboard.

"Three," Charles reminded him, "if Scott plans to join us. Unless he'd like to wait in the hallway, what do you say, Scott?" He raised his voice on the last, sending the question to the teenager hiding just out of eyeshot.

A moment later, Scott stepped into the doorway. He had his hands jammed into his pockets and his head bent at a familiar angle, hiding behind his hair. It was not the first time Charles had wondered what he could do about Scott, but he found himself thinking of this as a challenge, not an obstacle.

"Would you like to join us?"

The three of them were an odd picture sitting down to dinner together. Neither of the boys, he realized, would make the effort. Scott lacked the confidence and Hank the social graces.

So for a while, it was the sounds of chewing and awkward shifting. "You know," Charles commented, "one of us should learn to cook, we can't live off of pizza forever. And since cooking is essentially a science, it seems only fitting that you be the first to attempt it, Hank."

Hank glanced at Charles. For a moment, Charles held his breath. He needed this to go well. They had to start building friendships, the three of them. No man could live alone, a boring old fart like him or someone (at best) on the cusp of manhood like Scott—not that Charles would say so to his face, but he _was_ just a child. Charles had lost important people and Scott and Hank both seemed never to have had close friends, but the three of them rattling around here, each in their own world… it was pathetic, and it was pointless.

Silently, Charles watched Hank and hoped he would respond in fun. He could answer with a joke, with name-calling… just so long as he did not answer seriously.

"You're a professor," Hank retorted. "Everything I know I learned from men like you. Surely that makes you far more qualified."

"Oh, no, you're the creative one."

"It's your home. I wouldn't know where you keep things."

It was an absurd argument and surely Hank knew it. Charles appreciated Hank playing along. He even found himself enjoying this.

"Rearrange anything you like," he suggested. "Anyway, I'm English, everyone knows we have no sense of taste. My own mother, God rest her soul, couldn't cook to save her life."

His own mother, God rest her soul, had never actually tried to cook so far as he knew. That wasn't the point.

Hank had been a reserved young man when they first met. While he remained so, and they had not known one another long, the intensity of the past few months was enough to make them friends. It made Hank comfortable enough to reply,

"Is that why she's dead?"

Scott made a noise like he was choking. He pressed a hand to his mouth, twitched, and finally gave in and laughed. Charles heard his thoughts and while he could not disagree that laughing about someone's dead mother was generally distasteful, he did not mind the joke—especially for the response. It was the only the second time he had seen Scott smile.

"Good one, Hank." That was for Scott's benefit. Telling him it was okay, Charles hoped, would stop him apologizing. "Although you're still more qualified to cook," he added, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"Make me," Hank retorted.

"Well, if that's what you really want…"

Hank was old enough to know 'make me' was never a good argument, but it was a particularly poor choice of words with a powerful telepath.

"Oh yeah. Never mind," he agreed.

Feeling that the joking debate had served its purpose in easing the tension, Charles said, "Moira's coming to visit on Sunday."

"Is everything okay?"

Charles nodded. "It's fine. She just wants to catch up."

The lie felt forced. Surely Hank and Scott saw right through him, Charles thought. He tried making eye contact. He had learned long ago that the best way to lie was to look right at someone and do it—not that Charles lied often, but he was quite capable when he chose to. It didn't matter now. Hank and Scott were both busy making eye contact with their respective slices of pizza.

Charles pushed away his frustration. They did not all need to live locked in their own private worlds! The whole point in bringing together mutants had been acceptance and unity.

 _Time,_ he assured himself. _It will come with time._

After the earlier mention, Charles found himself thinking of his mother. If he was English, she was some kind of English cubed. She had been that way: cold and reserved. At the time, he had been too young to understand, let alone try to do something about it.

"Do you think she might feel guilty?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Moira," Hank clarified, and Charles realized only a few seconds had passed. While he had been lost in thought, the conversation remained. "About what happened on the beach."

Charles replied a little too quickly, "That is entirely in the past." Then, partly in apology for his sharp tone, he added, "Anyway, this is about something else."

Hank glanced at Scott briefly, then looked away. No one had explained to him why Scott was here beyond that he had been in "a difficult situation". Another time, Charles might have reflected that this was a painfully small amount of information for a man like Hank. Now, he was still thinking about the beach.

He did not blame Moira at all. She had fired the gun, but Erik had been the one to send a bullet spiraling into his spine. Erik had been the one to leave his friend lying there, grappling with the fear that he might truly be crippled for the rest of his life.

He sighed. Bitterness was an unproductive emotion. Erik was a very angry man with a lot of pain inside him. He hadn't meant it.

"I didn't mean it."

That accent still surprised Charles. It was tough to remember that Scott spoke with a Midwestern slant in his voice, and hearing the accent was nearly as surprising as hearing him speak at all.

"Didn't mean what?"

"What happened at the lab," Scott explained, which clarified nothing. "I didn't mean it. I'm not a bad person, I swear, I don't want to hurt people."

"I believe you." Actually, he was a bit confused. Charles did believe that Scott was a good person. Maybe it was not the first word he would have used to describe him, but along with 'shy', 'quiet', and 'able to ingest herculean quantities of pizza', 'good' was on the list. "But what's—ah." He did not need to ask, realizing what was prompting this. "Moira."

The degree of idealism which Moira managed to maintain was almost inspiring, save for the touch of cynicism underlying it. The night Scott was arrested, she had called Charles because she believed in fair treatment for mutants. She also believed Scott was a criminal and should face justice. That was where their opinions different. Charles believed in justice, but not for someone who would be made to answer only because he was vulnerable, not because he was guilty.

Besides, he had seen something in Moira's mind he did not like and did not want to accept: Scott frightened her. Because he was a mutant, because he was powerful, and because he was somewhat uncontrolled, he frightened her.

"I'm not going to let anything happen," Charles promised. "Moira just wants to talk to you."

Scott nodded. His acceptance of this seemed more placatory than anything else, and that was the best it would be.

Charles could scarcely blame him. Looking at Scott now, he did not see a person capable of committing destructive crimes. He was so uncertain, so withdrawn, and Charles had seen glimpses of memory. How harshly could anyone judge a fifteen-year-old boy who just wanted the pain to stop?

Unless Scott admitted this to Moira, though, she would only see what he had done and refused to speak about. Charles recalled that night, when they were driving back from the police station with Scott half-asleep in the backseat. It had been like she could read his mind then, because Moira had told him, _"He's a criminal, Charles. Don't forget that."_

_"He's just a child."_

_"He blew up a building!" Then, more gently, "I just don't want to see you get hurt again," like now that he had broken once he might look to make a hobby of it._


	10. Receptacle

Scott sat up quickly. His hand went to his throat, instinctively feeling for whatever made him feel so oxygen starved. There was nothing. He just couldn't get to the air. For a few seconds he sat, gasping, until finally his body remembered how to breathe.

It was a moment of clarity. For a few seconds, he had forgotten. He was asphyxiating on panic and that overshadowed things like memory.

Now that he could breathe again, Scott recalled everything. He knew where he was and what had happened. The only thing gone was the dream. It must have been a bad one, to leave him with a racing pulse, but it was over, leaving him alone with the sound of the rain on the windows.

He sighed, grabbed his glasses, and pushed away the covers. Scott might not recall his dreams—he never did—but he knew where he was. For the first time in his life, he was warm and relatively comfortable.

Relatively.

In the bathroom, he closed the door and flipped on the light.

Scott saw colors. He did not see them as others did; to him, everything was a shade of red. Still, when he lifted his shirt and looked in the mirror, he saw the myriad of wrong hues there: everything from the pale, almost pinkish scar tissue to the purpling bruises. He touched the edge of a bruise and hissed. It still hurt.

He had meant what he said about not wanting to destroy that building, but when he heard something crack and a punch left him on his knees, making equal efforts not to vomit or cry… well, what could he have said but yes?

As for the scars, Scott recalled some of them. Others he simply accepted. He traced a memory. He had been about eleven when that happened and by then he understood—or rather, he didn't understand, but he understood that there had to be a reason. He remembered waking up in bed and looking at the stitches, wondering why, noticing that this scar overlapped with a previous one.

He remembered that, then pushed the thought away and dropped his shirt.

Looking at the door, he paused. Scott knew what had happened since his almost-arrest and he knew where he was, but that did not stop his fear that he would open the door and find Milbury standing there, waiting. Why not? Scott had made no plans. He jumped on a train and rode until it stopped. He had not even known which state he was in until he saw the license plates.

Still Milbury found him.

 _He's not here._ Milbury was, well, was someplace else. He was not standing just outside that door—so why did Scott see him so clearly in his mind?

As he yanked open the door, he made a sound he would describe as a gasp. Anyone else, had they been around to hear it, probably would have called it a whimper. Luckily there was no one else.

Only a darkened hallway greeted him, but his fears did not seem silly because of it. Milbury _could_ be here. He wasn't now, but it was possible.

The idea occurred that he might go back to bed. He was awake now and not likely to return to sleep, but he had an interesting book to read. Except… he was very curious about this place. He had been here a little less than a week and barely knew anything about it.

He truly hadn't meant to fall asleep in the car, but even with a few minutes' rest, he had been too exhausted to hear more than bedroom, bathroom. The next morning, he had looked for, well, for whatever his name was. Scott didn't like to think of adults by first names. Besides having found the kitchen by following voices, and the library because he passed by an open door and saw more books than he could count (or resist), he knew nothing about the place.

Scott had loads of questions not likely to be answered by looking around. For one, where were they? This was still New York, right? And what was this place? It felt about the size of the home, except without the sense of utter neglect. The place was practically pretty, not whitewashed walls and linoleum floors.

He picked a direction at random and started walking. It was okay now. Nobody else would be wandering around in the middle of the night.

The whole place felt like a museum. Scott chose a room at random. The drapes on the windows were drawn, and enough moonlight streamed in that he could make out the shapes around him. He shut the door as gently as he could, then turned on the light.

Even in moonlight, everything had looked… classy. That was still true with the lights on, a collection of slightly dusty objects like the kind of thing nobody actually used, only observed. These were not objects so much as artifacts. Walking by them gave a distinct sensation that nobody lived here.

So there was the answer: this building was a receptacle for broken, discarded things that preferred not to be around humans.

Was that what they were? Him, Mr. Xavier, Hank… were they just objects that humans preferred not to be around? Scott had never known how much he felt he belonged until he didn't. No one liked the state home, but even someone as withdrawn as he was felt a part of something there. There were other children, other miserable children who hated it.

Scott sighed. He liked this place, so far. He was mostly left alone and it was an unnervingly comfortable experience, being able to go an entire day without fear of bullying or another experiment. There were too many questions, though. Scott wanted to know what, where, and why this place was. More than that, he wanted to know what was going to happen tomorrow.

What would happen when Moira came?

Scott touched the window, the cold stinging reality into his fingertips, then he rubbed at the smudge with the edge of his sleeve. The smudge turned into a smear. He tried again. Finally, he wasn't sure if he had cleaned the smudge or spread it so much it was simply impossible to discern.

Before, he had vaguely noticed the objects in the room. Now he focused on one in particular.

Judging from the amount of dust he had to knock away, no one had touched the piano in a while. Scott tried a few of the keys, picking out a tune anyone would have recognized as "Mary Had a Little Lamb". The keys sounded about right. He sat at the bench and, without thinking, played.

Scott agonized over every word he spoke. He wore two pairs of socks because they muffled the sound of his footsteps. Over the piano, he didn't hesitate. He just played.

His eyes drifted shut. He had done this so many times before, played these notes so many times it was easier without looking. The sound accompanied a faint memory. Had he even thought to reach for it, the memory would have eluded him. He didn't, just felt the ghost of a gentle hand against his back, a reminder to sit up straight, the color blue and the sound of an opening door…

He hit a sour note as his eyes flew open. The sound of the door opening, that was out of place. Scott glanced over.

Apparently he was not the only person wandering around in the middle of the night. For a moment, he just stared. Hank looked away first, shaming Scott into doing the same. It was so easy to look at Hank and just see fur, but Hank was also a person—and quite capable of getting his feelings hurt.

"Um. Hi."

"Hi."

"Sorry—I thought—I didn't think anybody else was awake."

Hank shrugged. "You're not bothering me and Charles would sleep through a nuclear war. Where did you learn to play the piano?"

Scott opened his mouth to answer, then paused. "I… I'm not sure." They hadn't taught him at the state home. It was before that, but when he looked at those memories, he flinched. He could see only fire.

"Look," Hank said, sounding about as awkward as Scott felt, "I know I'm blue, okay?"

He must have misinterpreted the flinch. Explaining would be next to impossible. How could Scott explain something he did not understand? He looked for his past and a wall of fire flared against him. So rather than even try, he looked at Hank.

Scott usually glanced at Hank then flicked his gaze away. He did not like looking at people: things Scott looked at stood a higher-than-average chance of being blown up.

Now he looked Hank in the eyes. What he saw surprised him. Hank seemed much younger now than Scott had guessed. Previously, he had just lumped Hank into that vague, foreign category of "adults". Judging a person's age when that person had so unusual an appearance was difficult.

But he had youth in his eyes, flickers of unguarded hurt. Hank wasn't really much older than Scott, was he?

No questions were needed about the other observation. Hank was hurt. Scott hadn't meant to do that. He really hadn't.

"Actually…" He touched his glasses. "Purple." At least, it was what Scott thought purple meant to most people. Everything was washing in red for him, but Hank was a similar color to the sky.

Even that brief glimpse into Hank's eyes had been enough to change Scott's thinking. Yes, the man looked different, but that stopped mattering against the very familiar, very clear look of pain. Scott held on tight to the pride he had, not sure how to apologize and not completely ready, either—but he could offer an olive branch.

"Purple?" Hank groaned. "Like blue wasn't bad enough!" but he did not seem to mind too much.

Scott shrugged. "In the Renaissance," he bungled the pronunciation, "purple signified royalty. You could be the king of France." It was, in his awkward way, a peace offering.

A moment later, Hank offered one in return. "Do you want ice cream?"

"Ice cream?"

"Yeah. I was just going to…"

"Sure."

He did like ice cream, and following Hank had the added benefit of helping Scott find a part of the building with which he was more familiar. He preferred not to admit how utterly lost he had become. "So, what is this place?"

Walking beside Hank was strange. He was tall and broad, and Scott could not help thinking this was kind of what it would be like to walk next to an ape. He wasn't proud and suppressed it, but that was what he thought.

"What do you mean?" Hank asked.

Scott shrugged. He had been there several days now. He knew it was like a giant house, or a private museum. Neither of those things seemed likely. "There's… there's so much space," he said. "It's too big to be somebody's home and everything feels... different… and… but you and Mr. Xavier act like it is. Your home, I mean." A thought occurred to him suddenly, a concept of which he was only vaguely aware. "You two aren't…?"

Hank hesitated. Then, "A couple?" like comprehension struck him as suddenly as the thought had struck Scott. "Me and Charles?"

The idea made Scott uncomfortable. He watched television, he knew what those people were like. "Are you?" he asked. He hoped not.

"No. I think he's sweet on Moira, actually."

Well, that was a relief.

They reached the kitchen. Scott had learned by now where he could find dishes and cutlery, and retrieved bowls and spoons. It was an unexpected turn of events, not where he had expected to wind up when he woke half-choked by his own fear. He was not sure he had ever been in this situation: chocolate ice cream at three a.m. with someone who could, maybe, be a possible friend.

"I still don't get it," Scott said, "what is this place?"

"It's Charles' home, but he says he wants it to be a haven for all, um, people like us."

 _Mutants._ Scott didn't like the word, but only because he knew it was true.

Semantics aside, the idea fascinated him. It made him pause in his task of licking up the drip of ice cream that had fallen onto his hand. He thought, then, removing his hand from his mouth, "How many mutants are there?"

"We don't know," Hank replied. "I designed a machine that amplifies Charles' ability and he found a lot of us, but didn't have an exact number."

"Are a lot of them like me?"

"From what I've seen, most mutants have unique abilities."

"I meant…" and there he hesitated. What was the word for someone like Scott? Foundling? Orphan? Homeless? Unwanted? They were bad enough as thoughts. He did not want to hear those words aloud. Instead, he tried to change the subject, but could think of nothing to say.

"Do you really not know your birthday?" Hank asked.

"I'm pretty sure it's in September. Maybe October." Scott shrugged. "It never mattered." He had been too young to remember his own birthday when he went to live at the Foundlings' Home, and Milbury hadn't cared. Scott was not sure what else to say on the subject, so he didn't say anything further.

Hank broke an awkward silence with, "So you like music?"

Didn't everyone like music? Scott nodded. "I like 'Green Onions'."

"It's a bit ubiquitous."

"Yeah, but it doesn't have sappy lyrics."

They both laughed. A lot of songs on the radio lately were love songs and Christmas carols. Green Onions was instrumental, so it did not have sappy lyrics—or any lyrics at all.

"You could learn to play it," Hank suggested.

Scott shook his head, then reached up and pushed his hair back. It was getting too long again, hanging over his eyes. His vision was obscured enough already! "I don't do that anymore," was the best answer he could give. He literally could not recall the last time he had touched a piano.

"Oh." Hank seemed to understand that Scott did not want to talk about that, because he changed the subject to, "Do you know 'Having a Party'?"

Scott thought for a moment. "No—yes! Is that one… 'keep those records playin'/'cause I'm havin' such a good time'?" he half-sang a few lines, giving an idea of the tempo.

Hank nodded.

"It's almost… melancholy, for something so cheerful."

"I never thought about that, but it is sort of sad."

"It's like…" Scott thought for a moment, trying to bring the whole song to mind. "It's…" Something about the brass, maybe, but even the singer's voice held notes of something deeper than the words suggested. "Maybe like they know it'll end."

"I could see that. How about The Four Seasons?"

"Ugh."

Hank laughed. "Monster Mash?"

"I haven't heard them," Scott admitted.

"You don't know Monster Mash?"

He shook his head.

"It's… difficult to describe. Come on, we can play the record."

As Scott once more followed after Hank, he reflected that this was a good feeling. It was a strange feeling, too, like an absence of weight: not being alone. He was beginning to really like Hank, to trust him. He still thought of him as blue, but he no longer thought of blue as a bad thing—just a trait Hank happened to have.

His growing comfort around Hank did not extend to the rest of the house, though. (House! This giant thing!) Hank walked into the room, flipped on the light, and began looking through a stack of records while Scott lingered in the doorway.

Scott glanced around, unsure. "Hank?" he asked, after a long moment of indecision. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be in here?"

Hank looked back at him. "Why wouldn't it be okay?"

Scott shrugged. Every single thing in the room had more value than he did. Was he supposed to just _hope_ he was allowed in here, _hope_ nothing broke? But Hank expected him to follow and Scott really did not want to explain, so he bit his lip and edged into the room. Anxiety kept him uneasy for a while—until about twenty seconds into the song.

Well, how could he _not_ laugh?


	11. Objectively, Pathetic

Charles had realized by now that the kitchen was the social hub of the house. It seemed to be the only thing the three of them had in common, and if he wanted to talk to both Hank and Scott, the kitchen was the ideal place—if he wanted to talk to anyone at all, the kitchen was the ideal place. When he rolled in that morning, Scott was hunched over a bowl of cereal.

Apparently fifteen was not too old to douse corn flakes with sugar. Good. Sugar made coffee slightly less unbearable. As he stirred the granules into his cup, Charles wondered who actually _liked_ coffee. It was acrid, bitter stuff that left an aftertaste stronger than toothpaste. Coffee was like waking up to a bucket of cold water on a morning about warm enough to freeze icicles in a man's hair.

Tea. That was a proper start to the day. He hadn't had a decent cup since the missile crisis. The leaves were in the cupboard, and Charles considered borrowing someone's body for a moment, just to retrieve the tea leaves. He could jump into Scott's mind or Hank's, they would never know…

Of course, that would be an abuse of power, but he was sorely tempted.

With a mug of the runner-up morning drink, Charles sat at the table opposite Scott. Normal people said 'good morning' to each other. Scott reacted to Charles' presence by tensing up and ducking his head half an inch lower. Any more nervous and he might drown in corn flakes.

Charles did not consider himself a violent man, but everyone had that darker nature. Some, like Erik, embraced it; others, like Hank, tried to avoid it entirely.

Charles liked to believe he had control of that part of himself, but Scott might well prove to be his breaking point. He had seen shyness and mutants afraid of their own abilities. This sort of fear wasn't natural. Someone had done this, and if Charles ever came face-to-face with the man who had taken an orphaned child and taught him to be afraid of breathing, he did not know what he would do.

"I'd like to begin working with you today toward controlling your ability."

Scott nodded without looking up from his cereal. "Okay."

He sounded like someone had just announced a plan to shoot his dog.

"Scott."

In the past, Charles maintained that the others controlled their own training. He would help where he could, give advice, push them when they needed it and tell them off when they deserved it, but he didn't give orders. He disliked the firmness in his tone. This should have been a casual conversation. But one word was enough to make Scott look at him.

As Charles saw it, what choice did he have? The boy was miserable, and he had been so long in the pit he no longer realized he could be pulled out. "Tell me."

Charles had no expectations. Scott had done everything asked of him and had been shy to do anything else, but he had not shared his thoughts—not knowingly, anyway. So Charles was not sure if he expected Scott to answer or not.

Something needed to change between them. He had left Scott alone for too long. Treating him like an adult, Charles thought, had been a mistake. But it had been so _easy_. Fifteen was old enough to look after himself, and Scott was quiet, didn't cause any trouble. He was fine on his own. Right? So what harm came of Charles spending the better part of the past few days in bed?

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head. After a few seconds, he tried again, this time managing, "I thought you were… I thought because you're like me…"

"That I wouldn't hurt you," Charles concluded when it seemed Scott couldn't. He understood now. In the past, anyone who had shown an interest in Scott's power had done so to use him. He had not heard 'you can learn to control your ability'; he had heard 'I want something from you'. And it was clear from Scott’s memories that he associated disobedience with violence.

Scott nodded.

"I won't. I wouldn't."

Charles had not been able to see much of what happened to Scott. There were bits and pieces, flashes of memory, but overall it was buried deep in his mind. He knew the basics, though. He knew Scott had been mistreated at the orphanage and bullied into destroying the lab. Even the police had been rough with him. Even when he was a small child, he knew that everything had a price, right down to sleeping indoors on a rainy night.

Charles regarded Scott with a sense of sorrow. Scott was just a kid, but over and over he had been hurt, and every person who learned of his power exploited it. He was so like Erik. They had both been so badly hurt, but they had so much good in them.

"Teaching you how to control your power, how to use it, isn't for my benefit but yours. Your mutation is a wonderful thing. Mutation is the process that turned us from a single-cell organism to the most dominant form of life on the planet." Once, this had been the speech that got women into bed, and it worked because it impressed them. Now he used it with another focus, trying to make Scott appreciate his own abilities. "You haven't had the opportunity to explore the extent of what you can do. A chance to do that, that's all I'm suggesting. And you can say no," he added. "I hope you won't, but you can. You won't be in trouble."

Scott sounded dubious. "You won't be mad?"

"Of course not." Charles didn't feel he had any right to tell Scott he was 'in trouble', but he could feel the fear of it in Scott's mind. For a moment, Charles waited, letting Scott debate between obedience and fear. Then he offered, "We can always try. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you do want to do this. To control your gift… you wouldn't need your glasses."

After a moment's thought, Scott agreed, "Okay."

He swallowed, then walked away from the table and dumped the remainder of his cereal into the sink.

Charles was pleased all the same. He was sure that just trying would be enough to make Scott understand that he had such potential. A victory would be nice, but none of the others had learned to control their abilities in a single day. Neither would Scott. He could see that it was okay to use his ability, though, and that would be a very good start.

"It's just," Scott added, "I don't want to destroy your house."

"I've thought of a way you won't," Charles assured him.

"Or hurt anyone."

"No, of course not."

Maintaining his calm demeanor in response to this was something of a challenge. Charles could not look at Scott without thinking of his past, of what he had been through, and that made much of his behavior understandable. Nothing could prepare Charles for the things Scott said, though.

At least he knew the bomb shelter would be safe. He had been surprised when Alex set it on fire—but even he had not actually damaged it, not _really_. It was only a few scorch marks.

"I don't mean to question you," Scott replied, haltingly. He watched his fingers, toying with the cuff of his (Sean's) sweater. "Only… how?"

Charles took one more sip of coffee. The cup was still half-full, but he was far more interested in working with Scott than in drinking mediocrity incarnate. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you. I just have to find Hank first, I need his help."

"Need my help with what?"

With Charles' attention on Scott and Scott's attention on picking at his sleeve, no one had noticed Hank's arrival.

Charles thought about the tea leaves, about the bomb shelter, about getting into the car that night with Moira. He hated the way people looked at him now that he needed the chair to get around. It was bad enough that they thought he needed help—how was he supposed to admit that he did?

He looked from Hank to Scott. Trying to see the boy again for the first time, Charles noticed the still-fading black eye, the curled shoulders, how he kept his head bowed to hide behind his hair. Scott was, objectively, pathetic. Charles doubted Scott would appreciate being thought of in that way, but it was the jolt he needed to explain, "We're going to work on Scott's control of his ability. It's rather destructive, so we'll be using the bomb shelter."

Hank nodded. "Makes sense," he agreed. "Where do I come in?"

"If you don't mind terribly, I'm going to need some help with the stairs."


	12. Like a Current

"I want you to take off your glasses."

He had expected that, but the words still hit Scott hard, knocking the air from his lungs. He couldn't! It had been ages since he willingly parted from his glasses. Back in Nebraska, he had taken them off just for a moment, just to get a good look at a crane—and destroyed it. He had nearly killed a group of people. He hadn't meant to, but that's what happened.

And in response, they had nearly killed him.

Since then, Scott was even more careful with his glasses. The whole time he was in the police station, he was dizzy with fear. Without his glasses, he had two options: he could literally destroy everything in his line of sight, or he could keep his eyes shut at all times. He needed his glasses.

He _needed_ them.

So when asked to take them off, Scott responded with dread that made him feel cold all over.

It must have showed, because Mr. Xavier assured him, "You can keep them. Just take them off."

Scott glanced around. At least he was unlikely to hurt anyone. Maybe, just maybe the cavernous bomb shelter stretched far enough that he would not be able to harm the opposite side. Scott doubted that, but it was nice to imagine.

Nevertheless, he hesitated to remove his glasses.

"Why?"

"You need to use your mutation."

That prompted the same question, in Scott's opinion. Why did he need to use his mutation? Why did he need to train when he could just keep his glasses on and never use it? What was the point, anyway, in controlling a mutation that would never do anything but destroy?

Scott wanted to ask. He even considered asking. He had learned better than to question, but Mr. Xavier seemed like he might, in fact probably would, allow it.

Ultimately, Scott said nothing. He just closed his eyes and took off his glasses.

"Even now you have some control," Xavier told him.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Scott experienced the words as anchorless. Everything was. His feet were on the ground but his body was floating with no point of reference—and that was frightening enough to make his heart race.

"You decide the direction of your ability. You can choose which way to look. You can choose to open your eyes or not."

 _Not._ If it were really a choice, that was Scott's answer: not. He knew it wasn't true. He had control, sure, but he did not make the decisions.

"Open your eyes, Scott."

Scott thought the command to himself, but his body did not respond. His eyes remained shut, safe. He was too strongly focused on doing just the opposite of opening his eyes. An image flashed through his mind of the last time, the horrible sound of a building falling in on itself, the dust coating his throat.

That sort of thing happened when Scott opened his eyes. Buildings collapsed. And that was best case scenario.

He was supposed to be opening his eyes. It wasn't happening and the seconds stretched on, taking him further away from the statement, from the time at which he should have obeyed.

He tried to imagine it. He would open his eyes and they would pop the way your shoulder does when you reach too far, like his eyes were trying to yank out of his head. It was difficult to describe the feeling of using his mutation. It wasn't hot or bright or a physical presence, but more like a current running through his eyes. It was physical pain focused on a part of him not meant for physical pain.

"You can do this."

_I can't._

He thought of his ability as noisy. It did not actually make a sound, but crashing walls did.

Scott twitched. _Do it,_ he told himself. _Just do it. Just open your eyes and_ —for all of one second, he saw a grey room. Then his vision blurred and went red. The current sparked. It was difficult to say how long this lasted. For Scott, the seconds stretched past hours, into timeless strain and ache. He was always aware of more when he used his ability.

There _was_ more. That was the weird thing. Scott knew his ability did nothing but destroy, yet when he used it, when he felt that power trying to burst his eyes, he always felt a sense of potentiality, like this was only a shoelace and a whole boot wanted to come through.

After what felt like a more than adequate demonstration, he closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his face.

In the ensuing silence, the one bright spot in his thoughts—he had not caused a cave-in—was overshadowed by questions. Had he done well enough? What would happen if he hadn't? And why wouldn't Mr. Xavier say something already?

Finally, "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized it would hurt."

Scott shrugged. "S'okay," he mumbled.

"No, it's not. It's not okay for anyone to hurt you, myself included—but thank you for your understanding."

"What happens now?"

Scott hoped this had been enough to dampen the man's interest in his ability. He hated it. The pressure made his eye sockets hurt when he used it, and built up inside his head when he didn't. The thought of controlling it was just foolish. He felt the surge of power; he knew it was beyond control.

Without his ability, though, was he of any interest? He had no place else to go.

"I still think it's important that you learn to control it, even more so now that I understand what it does to you. Your mutation is a part of you. It's who you are, Scott. It can't go away. It won't go away."

Scott could not control his mutation. He had tried. Milbury had tried over and over to find a way to alter his mutation and it simply couldn't be done. Scott knew that, but kept quiet. He did not want to talk back. This did little to assuage his worries: sooner or later, Mr. Xavier would realize that Scott simply could not do what he wanted.

Until then, though, Scott fully intended to try his best. So what if the man had crazy, impossible ideas? He was still probably the most decent person Scott had ever met. "I don't know where to start," he admitted.

"For now, try not to worry about it. We'll take a break for a while and come back to this later. All right?"

Scott nodded. A momentary reprieve was about the best he could hope for.


	13. Rats in a Maze

What amazed Scott most was that he had spent nearly an hour in the shelter. He knew that, at first, he had stalled with questions, but surely that had not taken more than fifteen minutes—especially since Mr. Xavier put a stop to it as soon as he caught on. Scott blamed himself. 'What do you mean, the events in October' had been a genuine question, but, 'Oh, are the Soviets Communists' had been something of a stretch.

Nevertheless, that left more than half an hour. In that time, what had he managed? He had opened his eyes.

Why did he need to use his mutation, anyway? He could not do anything useful, like Hank, who could single-handedly pick up an occupied wheelchair and carry it down the stairs. (It had probably been a mildly terrifying experience for Xavier, but nevertheless, it was useful.) He could not talk to people over distances or influence them, like Xavier. No, Scott just destroyed things.

He sighed and tried to put this all out of his mind. With a little free time, he had retreated back to his room with an apple and a book. More than anything else, he wanted not to have to think about this. Instead he focused on the words.

Words had a way of wrapping themselves around him. They always had. Even back in the home, Scott found that if he just opened a book and tried hard enough, the world around him would melt away. He preferred his life now to his life then, but he preferred the imaginary world to either.

When he surfaced, uncertain how much time had passed, and saw the light still very bright through the window, he was sure he had enough time just to close his eyes. Last night had been a late one. He just needed a few minutes' rest…

_Elsewhere, an hour later:_

"What are you up to?"

It was only half a conversation starter. With Hank, the answer was usually something incredibly interesting Charles almost understood. As Hank was currently sitting on the floor measuring the stairs, Charles was not only starting a conversation but actually curious.

Hank's response was a perhaps somewhat obvious, "I'm measuring the stairs."

"I see. What for?"

Hank looked up at Charles. It was rare anyone looked _up_ at him, these days, and Charles found himself thinking that at least one thing about Hank had not changed at all: his eyes held the same intelligence and keen awkwardness they had held before.

Hank adjusted his glasses and said, "Well, the incline is probably too steep for a ramp, but all we really need is an electronically controlled platform."

"And then I could get down the stairs on my own," Charles said, stating the obvious conclusion.

For a moment, the statement hung in the air between them. Charles had not talked much about his new life as a cripple, yet as Hank mentioned altering the house to make it more accessible, Charles found that he did not completely mind. In fact, he rather appreciated it. Trust Hank to take an utterly pragmatic approach to a situation that had Charles so emotionally knotted up, he wasn't sure he felt much of anything.

Hank looked away. "It's not that I mind! I don't, it's just…"

"I'd like that, too," Charles offered. "You've been a wonderful friend to me, but it would be nice to move about more freely."

The moment of silence between them, this time, was pleasant. They had just spoken about his impairment and it had been a pleasant exchange. For a moment, the wheelchair had simply been a fact.

Then Charles shifted the focus of the conversation with, "You and Scott are getting to be friends, too."

"I'm not sure I'd say friends. We talked."

"That wouldn't have been last night, would it?"

Hank looked back at Charles. "Reading my mind?"

“Not at all!” He knew because Scott had barely looked at Hank the previous evening but smiled and said good morning today. "It certainly explains why he's sleeping now. We were supposed to work on controlling his mutation." A quick search had given Charles an explanation, when Scott did not show up.

Hank closed his notebook and stood. He still held himself a little awkwardly, not quite used to his new body (when he remembered to think about it). "He's still afraid of you."

"What?" It hurt to hear. "Why?" Charles knew Scott came from a rather unhappy situation before, but he had done nothing to harm him. He had not even raised his voice. Honestly, he was in a wheelchair!

Hank shrugged.

“Is that what he said?”

"Not exactly." Hank paused to think for a moment, and Charles could not help considering reading his mind—with permission, of course. Perhaps reading Scott's mind would have been more direct. "I think he's just afraid of being in trouble, and you're sort of the boss around here."

Charles did not feel he was 'the boss' of anyone, but he accepted the statement. It made sense. That morning, he had seen that Scott still expected the worst of people, and Charles was both the oldest and more of an authority figure than Hank. Unfortunately, understanding this did not help him fix the situation with Scott.

He tried a different approach, asking, "What would you do, in my situation?"

Hank took another moment to think. Charles appreciated that. Hank was a brilliant scientist. Admittedly, this was not a scientific study, but he trusted that Hank would give it his best and provide a fresh outlook if nothing else.

"Any experiment requires parameters, otherwise it could potentially be open to possibilities beyond measure and utterly meaningless. The scientist defines the parameters."

In this situation, Charles understood that he was the scientist. He understood what the parameters were, too. "No, I don't want to give him rules, he hasn't done anything wrong. And anyway, I'm not in any position to tell somebody what to do."

Hank shrugged. "You asked my opinion," he observed. "You've told him he's safe here and it hasn't worked. Maybe you can't tell him, maybe you need to teach him. You are a professor, after all."

What a strange reminder! Once, Charles recalled, he'd had dreams about that. He would teach classrooms full of students all about mutation, evolution, genetic variation. He would, slowly, popularize the knowledge that humanity was simply one step on the ladder. Then Moira had come along and the dream rather changed, but it remained just as powerful, just as hopeful and strong.

It was not the same overwhelming drive, but Charles felt a hint of that inspiration now. The response was almost reflexive: "You don't get to be called a professor until you have a teaching position." Still, he might not have a whole class of humans to teach about mutation, but he had one mutant, one kid who deserved to know why he could level a building with one glance.

"You didn't stop any of us," Hank pointed out.

“I couldn’t stop any of you,” Charles retorted. During the experiment, taking on that title seemed appropriate. And look how that had turned out.

Before he could think of a response, Hank asked, "Why _is_ Moira coming? I know it's not to catch up."

That lie might have worked, had Scott not panicked, but Charles supposed that Hank was involved with this, as well, now. He deserved to know the truth.

"Scott's mutation allows him to produce concentrated energy, much like Alex's. He was coerced into using this ability to break into a building—luckily, Moira knows mutation when she sees it. I don't know what the police would have done, had I not been able to intervene. Unfortunately," he concluded, "Moira doesn't see Scott as I do. She still thinks of him as a criminal. And I imagine by now she's learned that I wiped the memories of half the police station."

Hank's response was a mix of a blatant gawp and a breathless chuckle. "I'm not even surprised," he said.

"It was necessary." Charles' tone was quite different to his words. Necessary it had indeed been, but in an absurd sort of way, it was also amusing. What strange lives they led that altering the memories of the police was simply an accepted activity.

"But not Moira?"

"No, not Moira."

Charles had considered it, in truth. Moira had an important decision to make. If she included the truth about mutation in her report about the missile crisis, and the specifics of certain mutants along with it, she could endanger them. Much as he regretted to admit it, Erik had been right on one count: most humans were not friendly towards mutants.

He could erase her memories and make the decision that much easier for Moira, not to mention protecting his fellow mutants. However, he wouldn't. Moira had shown herself to be rational, intelligent, and compassionate. She would make the right choice and deserved the opportunity to do so.

Besides, she was one more friend he couldn't bear to lose.

The silence, for Charles, was contemplative. Judging by the tone of his next words, it had been awkward for Hank.

"I still think you're missing the point about Scott. It's something you're not very good at, and I know, because so am I, but sometimes you have to meet other people where they are."

"Meaning what, precisely, Hank?" The question was perhaps somewhat weary, but not aggressive. Hank was undeniably brilliant. Sometimes that was just the problem. He could be tough to keep up with.

"Rules wouldn't tell him what he can't do. They'll tell him what he can do. I'm sorry, Charles, I know it's not true, but I don't think it's within his grasp that you're not going to hurt him. You're… an unknown variable. And his parents were probably insane."

"No, not his parents." Charles realized how right Hank was. Scott's parents might have been the kindest people alive. It didn't matter. It had been Milbury in the place of a parent since Scott was a small child, Milbury raising him. Charles assumed Scott would settle in and realize Milbury was gone.

He was beginning to see Hank's perspective. Seemingly unaware of that, Hank asked, "Just what is the point here, Charles?"

"I'm sorry—the point?"

"After what happened with Darwin," Hank began, then he paused and looked away.

The loss of Darwin had been difficult for all of them, but Charles knew it struck the younger mutants harder. He had not been close with Darwin, had not watched as a friend dissolved into ash. With fresh wounds of his own, Charles doubted anything he could say would ease Hank's pain. Instead, he stayed quiet while Hank decided whether or not he wished to continue.

After a few seconds, he did, with, "You brought us here to train so we could fight Shaw and we did. Shaw's dead. Are we training to fight Erik? And Raven? If that's the purpose now, why a kid? I just—it's not for me that I'm asking. I don't try to change the world, I just study. But you, Charles… without a goal you become a different person. You’re miserable."

“Since when do you understand people so well?” Charles wondered. His tone conveyed how much this impressed him. This was not the Hank of even a few weeks ago.

Hank shook his head. “Not people,” he corrected. “I’m a scientist. I’m a scientist who can’t go out in public and, since I have little interest in botany and entomology, that leaves me two subjects to observe. I’m a very good scientist, but not getting out… you can read minds, but sometimes you’re not the best listener. Me, I’m an observer.”

“Rats in a maze,” Charles joked.

“Oh, no. Rat behavior is far more complicated.”


	14. Finches

The following morning, Scott paused not far from a half-open door. Someone was in that room and instinct told him to back away before he was caught. That was the best thing: stay out of the way. Yet he realized after a moment that those were distinctly frustrated tones. He still wanted to run, but he wanted to help, too.

So he stood, frozen, not sure how to respond.

He had never heard someone speak like Mr. Xavier did. It wasn't that he seemed unshakably calm. No, that was strange, but even in Scott's spotty education there had been some kind teachers. It was his accent. At the police station, he had wondered if it might be some sort of joke.

A country truly existed where everyone sounded like him. Scott imagined they all spoke with the same measured calm, or would have an airy sort of tone on the first word of a sentence rather than laughing.

He had never imagined they might mutter obscenities so softly the words could not be made out, but the tone indicated perfectly what sort of words they were. Nearly as fascinating as hearing Mr. Xavier swear was the fact that his voice wasn't angry. He sounded frustrated, but not like he wanted to kick the nearest vulnerable creature.

Not that he could even if he wanted to.

Finally, Scott followed the noise. That led him to a room he had seen before, but not in daylight. He only really recognized it because of the piano. Besides that, it looked like the sort of sitting room where nobody would actually sit. Verbs had to be very careful around here. They felt so terribly out of place. 'Look' was okay, but everything from 'bump into things' to 'sneeze' seemed somehow wrong.

Scott might have avoided the room entirely from then on, were it not for Mr. Xavier attempting to gather scattered pieces of paper. The wheelchair made the task difficult at best. It looked like an uncomfortable attempt, too.

Without thinking, Scott knelt and swept together a pile of what he now realized were photographs. The cuffs of his sweatshirt fell over his fingers a few times and he pushed them back to get some use from his hands. For a long moment, he hesitated, looking at the snapshots of someone else's life. He knew it was rude. It was prying. But for that moment, Scott was too fascinated to care.

Then he picked up the lot and offered them to Mr. Xavier.

"Sorry…"

Mr. Xavier reached toward him. Scott flinched. _Please-don’t-sorry-!_

“I wasn’t going to hit you.”

No answer.

“Scott, hand me the pictures, please.” He took the pictures and slipped them into an envelope, which he tucked into a photo album. He then replaced the album on the shelf. Had the whole thing not been so smoothly done, it might have seemed like he was trying to hide something.

"Thank you." The man's tone held more than simple thanks, but Scott did not try to guess what. As luck had it, he didn't need to guess. "This stupid chair. It's an obstacle and such a… nuisance."

Scott did not know what to say to that. Being in a wheelchair did seem like a nuisance. Half the buildings in Omaha would be inaccessible just because of the stairs—of course, they were not in Omaha, but it was what Scott knew.

"What happened?" he blurted.

Mr. Xavier looked at him for a moment, long enough to make Scott shake his head. "Never mind. I'm sorry, I didn't… I wasn't thinking…"

It had been an unnecessarily personal question to ask. They were hardly friends.

Although Mr. Xavier was possibly the kindest person Scott had ever met, thinking of someone twice his age (at least!) as a friend seemed strange. Being friends with someone blue was one thing. Being friends with an adult…

"It was an accident," Mr. Xavier said, surprising Scott.

He waited a moment. When no more information was offered, he asked, "Like a car accident?"

He could not help flinching when he asked.

Since arriving here, he had not once been smacked or shouted at, but those few days were not enough to undo years of conditioning. Scott knew that good things happened. There was sunshine in the world, and luck on math tests, and Pete Seeger (of whom Scott was much fonder than he would publicly admit). His life had not been all misery. The misery remained, though, always waiting. Not one had hurt him here, but he expected it nonetheless.

"I was shot."

"Somebody shot you on accident?"

"I have a friend, another mutant," Mr. Xavier explained. "His mutation allows him to control metal, including bullets. He didn't mean to hit me and he certainly didn't mean to do this."

Did that matter? Scott considered it. He hadn't meant to break into the lab. That was the only defense he had, his only argument against prison was that he had no choice. Was it the same as Mr. Xavier's friend who bounced a bullet into his spine?

Something else distracted him, though, a question that had been bouncing around in Scott's mind since the police station. He gnawed at his sleeve, curious but finally in control enough to shut himself up.

"What is it?"

He shrugged. "What does 'mutant' mean? I mean, I know it's what you call people who can—who can do something—people like us, but…"

Mr. Xavier regarded him for a moment and Scott wondered if he would get an answer. The man never seemed to need prompting to discuss mutation.

At first, Scott had thought he understood that word. A mutant meant someone who was deformed, right? And 'deformed' could apply easily enough to his messed up eyes or Hank's size and blueness, but the only way in which Mr. Xavier was deformed was his legs. What did being in a wheelchair have to do with reading people's minds?

"You can't be comfortable there, and this may be a long conversation."

Scott glanced at the sofa, then sat on the floor. He saw the disapproval on Mr. Xavier's face and drew his knees against his chest. _Don't_ , Scott urged silently. It wasn't worth fighting over. He just didn't want to sit on that stupid sofa! It made him feel dirty, like just touching a piece of furniture would sully it.

Finally, Mr. Xavier decided on, "Do you understand what evolution is?"

Scott shook his head. His sweatshirt had fallen over his hands again. He bunched up the fabric and toyed with the ribbed cuff, stretching it and watching it bounce back.

"A species develops the traits it needs to survive in its environment . Charles Darwin first formulated his theory based on a group of finches. They were, all of them, finches, but each species had its own role. Each adapted to its unique food source. From one common ancestor, a dozen subspecies of finch developed. One had a beak that allowed it to drill into cacti to reach to grubs, others would have beaks more suited to cracking seeds."

Scott listened and tried to understand, but it was hard. He did not know the difference between a beak that drilled into cacti and a beak that cracked seed casings. He did not see how these were the same animal, either. If they could all do different things, surely they were not the same. Were they the same or different? And if they were different, how?

He stared at the floor, brow furrowed in an attempt to make sense of any of this. Twice he thought he understood and started to ask a question, but could not quite phrase the difficulty.

Finally, he gave up. "Oh, okay."

"It's all right if you don't understand."

Scott nodded, not giving an answer either way.

"They developed traits they needed to survive. Or, rather, those who failed to develop necessary traits did not survive." When that sparked no glimmer of recognition he tried again, "Those whose traits are counter to survival do not pass on genetic material and the traits disappear. It usually takes thousands of years for what may begin as a variation to become a dominant, common trait."

He was still watching the floor, but the quality of the silence alerted Scott that a response was expected. He thought for a moment, because he wanted to show that he understood—but he didn't understand.

"And that's why there are different types of finches?"

"Well, that's why there are different types of animals at all. It's why giraffes have such long legs and necks, why fish breathe underwater—it's why humans walk on two legs, for that matter. And it allows individuals to develop abilities like Hank's strength or my telepathy or your…"

Mr. Xavier's inability to put a name to Scott's ability stung. He could argue science all he liked, but Scott understood language, and he understood that words existed for whatever needed them. Even the ability to read minds existed, as Scott guessed from the context.

There was no word for his ability.

"Blowing stuff up," Scott supplied.

"Blowing stuff up," Mr. Xavier agreed, the words sounding awkward and unnatural.

Scott thought for a moment. He might not understand how mutation and evolution happened or what they really were, but he could accept that because of these things, animals developed different traits. "What would humans look like otherwise?" he wondered.

The answer came surprisingly easily, "Chimpanzees."

"Chimpanzees?" Scott raised his head, surprised. Was that a joke? "Like monkeys?"

"Well, they're not the same as monkeys, but yes. Over millions of years, humans evolved from something similar to chimpanzees."

"Oh."

So from chimpanzee-like to humans to people like them?

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"It's obviously something, you just don't want to tell me what."

Well, oughtn't that be enough to let the matter drop?

Scott realized he was chewing at his sleeve unnecessarily vengefully and lowered his wrist.

"It's just… that's not what they said at school."

"What did you learn at school?"

He shrugged. It felt like a trap and he did not want to tell the truth. He had learned too different a story, a very contradictory one. There was no point in lying, though, not to someone who could hear his thoughts.

"That God made us in His image," he mumbled.

Surprised, Mr. Xavier asked, "You were in a religious school?"

Scott shook his head.

"Oh. Well… that's… another viewpoint, and there's certainly nothing wrong with—"

"I don't believe God has anything to do with it," Scott interrupted.

Neither of them spoke for seven seconds. Scott knew because he heard the clock ticking. He twisted the harassed cuff of his sweatshirt, not comfortable with the fact that he had interrupted. It was rude—it was risky. Being rude was just one more step towards making someone angry.

After those seven seconds, Mr. Xavier offered, calmly and carefully, "You're free to believe whatever you like. It's nobody's business but your own."

Scott was not sure what he believed. He had spent a lot of time in church when he was younger. He was no longer a Catholic, but certain religious beliefs had definitely influenced his education. The scientific explanation still had him muddled.

Finally, he just shrugged. "I was never very good at school," he admitted. "I forgot things."

That was one more reason he felt out of place in this house. Moira would be here soon. Everything cost more money than he had ever imagined existed. He did not know how long he would be here or what he was and was not allowed to do.

And he felt like an idiot. Both Hank and Mr. Xavier were educated men. No one had explicitly stated this, but no one needed to. Educated people had a way about them. Scott had limped through school. Even when he could remember the information, the headaches just kept getting worse and worse until he couldn't concentrate.

Both because he had no desire to discuss the subject further and because he did not know what else to say about his academic mediocrity, Scott asked, "This can really never go away?"

"No, you'll always be a mutant, but it won't always be like this. I can teach you to control your ability. Of course, if I'm going to train you, you'll have to be awake…" Mr. Xavier did not seem terribly upset about this, though.

Scott glanced up and, after gauging the man's expression, smiled.

It was a twisted, nervous sort of smile—but only somewhat apologetic.


	15. Cerebro

 

** House Rules **

1\. Come and go as you please, but be back by 9:00.

2\. Resolve conflicts with words. Violence is never the answer.

3\. Someone will be responsible for kitchen upkeep every week.

4\. The rest of the day is yours, but be on time for training and show up to

dinner. We may live off of pizza for the rest of our lives, but we are not

going to do so alone.

Consequences will range from a warning to an extra week cleaning the kitchen.

 

The idea of house rules still made him uncomfortable. He wanted to be able to hold a conversation with Scott, not tell him what to do. Yesterday's conversation had left him hopeful. Nevertheless, he had seen the logic of Hank's suggestion that laying out boundaries might be comforting.

He had come to see the logic of much of what Hank had said. Little as Charles liked admitting it, having no goal had at least been a contributing factor to the amount he had been drinking and doing nothing the past weeks. All his life, Charles had worked towards something. Not only that, he had achieved much of it! He had a doctorate and had played a not insignificant role in averting nuclear war. Now he was working on formulating a new goal.

In the interest of not singling anyone out, however, the rules applied to all of them. It seemed reasonable to Charles, especially since the rules were meant to be lenient.

Hank's lab was out of the way and took a while to reach. Following Charles' criterion of 'wherever you like', Hank had chosen somewhere relatively quiet. He chose to use the same space after destroying it, fixing it up so that it once more resembled a laboratory, even if he did not have all the equipment he might have liked. That's what happens when you destroy your working space in rage.

Maneuvering his way to the lab took a while and several moments of frustration as Charles navigated turns he had only a few times attempted in the wheelchair. These halls held far too many memories— _of his mother and stepfather, of Raven, of being able to walk!_ —and it put him in a rotten mood. His thoughts were about as filled with rude words as Scott's.

Honestly, either it was a Nebraska thing or that kid really took issue with fowl.

Charles knocked on the door. "Hank?" A moment after he asked, he heard a loud _bang!_ but since no cries followed it, he assumed Hank was simply completing some sort of experiment and had not been injured. That assumption was confirmed when Hank opened the door.

"Charles," Hank greeted. He wore his lab coat and looked to have made an entirely futile effort at combing his hair that morning. "Come in. I was thinking about the uniforms. They were largely effective at the missile crisis," he continued, turning and walking towards what Charles guessed was an experiment, because he had no idea what it was.

"Hank—"

Oblivious, Hank continued, "But with Erik's ability, we really need to modify, well I need to modify, some aspects of the design…"

"Hank—"

"And another difficulty, of course, I meant to address this the first time around but it was simply too big a challenge and I didn't have the time, but the gloves could be thinner."

Well, Charles could not deny that. He remembered his hands had been clumsy in the jet. It had not been the sort of thing he thought about at the time, especially since his ability was mental and not physical. Upon reflection, another circumstance might require more doing and less thinking.

There was the slight snag in Hank's logic that those days were over. Charles certainly would not be returning to attempts at heroism, nor was he sure he would send anyone into that situation. How could he stop Hank now, though? This was the old Hank, awkwardly enthusiastic about his research.

Rather than suggesting that his efforts were futile or insisting that he might not have to oppose Erik—he still hoped his friend would not force him into that position—Charles agreed, "That could be a useful modification. So what's all this?"

Hank had rigged to the edge of the table what looked like a heavily spring-loaded pinball shooter aimed at strips of cloth. "I modified the force of impact using the, uh, well, pinballs as projectiles—if the fabric needs to be useful, of course, and at least some degree of temperature resistance, and it—and who knows what sorts of abilities, I know my own hands would be… awkward."

"Those are really pinballs?"

Hank nodded.

Charles smiled. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

"Thanks. Oh, and, uh, this is for you." Hank looked over a collection of objects, some of which were easily recognizable, like a wrench and several mugs. After a moment, he offered what looked like half a funnel attached to the lid of a mason jar.

Charles took it curiously. The jar lid, he saw, had a piece missing and replaced with cloth.

"Percolator. Temporary percolator.”

"Oh. Thanks." Charles managed to state it warmly, although the funnel-lid depressed him. He appreciated the effort on Hank's part. A friend had recognized a challenge and tried to help, but Charles could not help feeling he was stuck between things he did not actually like and admitting he needed help, which he liked even less.

He swiftly changed the subject to, "Do you have a minute or two? I was hoping you'd have a look at this."

Hank nodded and took the paper. It was short and he read it quickly, nodding as he did and agreeing, "Hm… fair enough… wait a minute. This is for me? _Curfew?_ "

"Nine o'clock doesn't seem unfair." Besides, why did it matter? Hank never left the building. Charles had not thought that would make much of a difference either way.

Hank glanced at the paper again, as though confirming that it truly restricted him to being back by nine. "Yeah, but… _curfew_?"

Charles reasoned, "The rules were your idea."

"For Scott!"

"And you were right, but I didn't want to single him out," he explained. There was not much sense of unity in the household and, while Charles understood why, he did not want to encourage that. He wanted them to at least acknowledge one another's existence on a regular basis. "If you prefer, you can be exempt from the curfew."

"That's not really the point. Charles, I'm not a child."

"I know that." When he wrote up the rules, Charles had tried to keep from stepping on Scott's toes. Apparently he had stepped on Hank's toes instead. Or rather, he had rolled on them. "Hank, this was your idea and it’s a list of things we already do."

Hank offered a noise that was neither agreement nor coherent argument. “So I’d better behave or you’ll make me clean the kitchen?”

Charles resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m asking you to be a good role model for Scott.”

“That was manipulative.”

“It worked, though, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it worked.”

If he was going to assert authority, he was going to do it with an end in mind. In this case, that end was scraping together some cohesion amongst them. Last time, the group was composed primarily of young people who could hang out together. He and Erik had not been a part of that group, but they had been friends with one another. Now there were three people, all of whom were largely alone.

But he did not want to say all that to Hank. How could he? _I feel lonely._ Instead, he said, "Good, because I did want to ask you—I want to use Cerebro again."

"You're still looking for Erik?" Hank guessed.

Charles shook his head. "I've been thinking. My days for heroics are behind me, but there's still a new species emerging and it still needs someone to lead it. Or protect it," he added after a moment.

Not Erik, then. "Scott."

"I didn't think it was possible for what happened to Erik in Poland to be repeated. Not today, not in America." Of course Charles knew that not everyone lived up to the American ideal. He had grown up in this house and he had been no stranger to bullying, but there was a difference between animosity between stepbrothers and an adult using a child as a science experiment.

"So what are you thinking?" Hank asked. "A mutant orphanage?"

"More like a school…"

It had only been a seed of an idea in Charles's mind, but now, talking to Hank, he felt the ideas taking shape. A mutant school—it could work, a safe place for kids like Scott or those just discovering their powers.

And the more Charles said, the surer he felt.


	16. By Sheer Numbers

The kitchen remained the only part of the house frequented by all three of them, so Charles set the list of house rules on fridge.

He assumed Hank was in his lab and Scott holed up somewhere with a book. Alone in the kitchen, Charles reached for the cabinet. He had tried reaching his tea before and failed. The same seemed likely to happen now. His fingertips were only centimeters from the cabinet. Yet, despite his best efforts, those centimeters remained.

The sound of the front door opening and closing surprised him. Charles backed away from the cabinet and telepathically read the nearby area, as usual finding only the three of them. It seemed he had been wrong when he guessed Scott's whereabouts—and that the boy's plans for the next five minutes put them on colliding paths.

"Hello, Scott."

"Hi."

Scott paused outside the kitchen. He looked almost reassuringly normal. Mud-spattered and grass-stained, were it not for the omnipresent red glasses he would have looked like any other kid. The only other noteworthy difference…

"What happened to your shoes?"

Scott looked down at his socks. "Left 'em outside. Mud."

"I see."

"Um, may I…?"

Charles did not know to what this referred, but he had a guess. "Go ahead."

That guess was confirmed as Scott headed to the refrigerator. He paused, read the note of rules and consequences, and nodded. Then he went ahead and looked for something to eat. Charles knew what he saw. They were rather low on food and he was more than tired of pizza.

Apparently Scott felt the same, because he decided to search cupboards instead.

Charles had told him, on that very first day, that he did not permission to eat. He wished Scott believed him, but decided to shelve that discussion for another day. There were more pressing matters to discuss now.

"You don't mind the rules?" Charles asked. He remembered being Scott's age. Of course, it had been 1947 and attitudes towards authority were different these days, but Charles had resented being told what to do. His mother and stepfather usually seemed not to notice him unless it was about something he had done wrong.

Scott, meanwhile, had located a tin of soup. He set a pot on the stove. After the brief clatter, he replied, "No. It's just… what if the question is 'what is never the right way to solve an argument'?"

"What?"

"Well… it's violence, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. Violence is not the answer."

"Unless the question is 'what is never the right way to solve an argument'," Scott insisted.

The penny dropped: he was joking. Charles laughed. "All right," he ceded, "violence is _usually_ not the answer, save in that particular, unlikely situation."

Scott raised his head just enough to allow for a brief moment of what passed for eye contact. They had known one another only a week, but that was long enough for Charles to appreciate that to look at someone and smile was a step towards coming out of his shell. It was nothing like the same as averting a war, but for that brief moment, it meant just as much.

Then Scott asked, "Is something burning?"

"Dammit!" Charles wheeled to the oven too quickly. Smashing into it would have hurt, if he had any feeling in his legs. He reversed, switched off the stove, and opened it to see that what was meant to be his lunch was far past the point of consumption.

Scott took a second bowl out of the cupboard.

Taking help had never been something Charles liked, but since being confined to a wheelchair, he absolutely hated it. Every little thing he could not do felt like a personal flaw. Every time someone tried to help him, he felt like that person saw him as weak.

Yet Scott had no pity in his face.

"Thank you."

Scott nodded. He let the soup cook another minute before pouring it out, then carried both bowls to the table.

Charles did not bother trying to talk for a while. He could have, but Scott still ate like someone was going to take the food away if he didn't bolt it down fast enough. His attention was elsewhere. Because it was, Charles allowed his own thoughts to wander.

Erik had accused him of thinking humans were all like Moira. That wasn't true for two reasons. First, Moira was something special. Not all humans were as smart, determined, resourceful, or—frankly—pretty as Moira. Second, he knew that some people were weak. Some people made bad choices, though it did not make them bad people.

But there _were_ bad people in the world. Charles still believed that what happened in Germany could not be repeated, not here, not on such a scale. One terrible person could still do a world of damage, though. Charles watched Scott for a moment. By sheer numbers, Milbury was not so bad. But for what he had done to one kid?

There had been a moment, about a year ago. Charles was working on his thesis, but he was so tired. As he neared completion of his work, he began to realize his formal education would come to an end. Much as he wanted to complete his thesis, achieving a goal frightened him a little. Once it was done, it was gone. Raven hadn't noticed that he spent a lot more time at the pub, but another young man in his program had. Charles no longer remembered his name, but the young man was going to Greece for the holidays. Charles could have gone with him.

He might not have returned to the program, might have taken a single semester off, might have done a poorer job on his thesis and not been granted his degree. Moira would not have spoken to him. If they had never met, she would not have called him and might not have recognized Scott as a mutant.

It could have been much simpler than that. The night she called, Charles might have stayed in bed. He had wanted to. He might have let the phone ring until it stopped ringing.

The mistake Charles had nearly made would have cost Scott dearly. Worse, he never would have known. The thought gave him a sense of confident resolve. It had not happened now; it would not happen again. Only next time, that mistake would not be averted by luck.

"I thought about what you said."

"Did you?" Charles asked, hoping for an elaboration. He was glad Scott wanted to talk to him. This was certainly better than when every word had to be teased out of him. Nevertheless, he did not know what Scott meant.

Charles said a lot of things.

Scott nodded. "About the finches. I was wondering…"

"Go on."

"You said because they evolved, they had the traits they needed to survive."

"That's right."

"So why can I blow stuff up?"

They really needed to find a better name for that.

Charles addressed the sudden, drastic variation. "Evolution is usually a very slow process. It takes thousands of years to achieve even small changes. There's no certain explanation as to why a radical change would happen, although it's likely related to the progress we've made in nuclear power."

"But being able to blow things up isn't something I need to survive. It's never helped me."

That was a fair point. Charles thought about that for a moment. His own ability had always been an advantage, and he tended to think of it as a logical extension of his natural intellect. Even that had not happened as evolution normally did, slowly and through survival of the fittest.

"The mutations people like us experience are different. It is evolutionary mutation, but of a different kind, and because it is not vital to the survival of the species the particulars of each individual ability are, well, inexplicable."

Scott's expression could be difficult to read with his eyes hidden, but Charles would have characterized his demeanor as thoughtful and confused. Finally, the boy shook his head. "I still don't get it. I'm sorry, I'm really trying."

"I know you are. There's simply no answer, I'm afraid," Charles simplified, "only theory and speculation. Don't be too hard on yourself if you don't understand all of this, it's very complicated."

Scott nodded unconvincingly. Charles wanted to say something. For someone who had only yesterday heard about evolution, Scott was making considerable progress—and he still thought it was a personal failing. Standing back and doing nothing was not a strong suit of Charles's, and patience was working. It was just working slower than he would have liked.

After a few moments, Scott went to wash his dishes. Charles remained at the table, looking at a mostly full bowl and trying to make himself focus on eating. He _was_ hungry. It was just that his mind had a habit of distracting him.

The tap ran for a while. When it shut off, Charles said, "Half past one, remember." He had said nothing about their last training session, though Rule #5 pretty clearly covered sleeping through training.

"I remember."

"Scott."

His footsteps paused at the sound of his name.

"In the cabinet above the stove, there's a box of tea. Would you bring it down, please?"

Asking felt like pulling out his own teeth, to Charles. Scott responded like it was nothing at all, doing as he was asked. Then he hesitated. Well, why wouldn't he? How could he miss the heavy feeling of tension making the room so much smaller?

Charles took a moment to piece together what he wanted to say. He had not meant to speak, not really. Yes, he wanted to explain, he wanted _someone_ to understand, but he did not like expressing feelings and weakness. Even if he were to do so, was a child the right person to talk to?

"I don't like asking for help. I don't like _needing_ help, but you've been very good about…"

Scott walked back to the table and sat down again.

Vulnerability was not a fond state for Charles, and the thought became even worse after that day, lying on the beach and unable to move. He did not want to look at Scott. He didn't want to, but he forced himself to. Being vulnerable was bad enough without showing it.

Looking away would have made no difference. Scott was staring at his hands. Finally, he asked, "The accident was recent, wasn't it? The one that put you in that chair?"

"Yes."

"Hank said Moira felt guilty," he said slowly, still thinking this through as he spoke, "about what happened at the beach. Was she... was it Moira?"

He really did not want to talk about this. "Moira was there, but no, she's not a mutant."

Scott nodded. "But you… I mean… _really_? Mr. Milbury was gonna… you saved my life. You've treated me like a person. Do you think I care that you're crippled?"

It was the first time he had heard that word without it hurting even a bit. Maybe because of his youth or the fact that he had not known Charles before the accident, Scott did not shy away from it. "When you put it that way, I suppose not. Anyway," his tone rapidly shifting, "you should go and enjoy your free time while you have it."

The reasoning was weak, but Scott either understood that Charles needed time to himself now or was just keen to get back outside, because he once more headed out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.

"I wasn't even sure you knew cuss words."

Smart aleck!


	17. The Ashes of Dying Stars

Hank wasn't sure what made him do it, ultimately. Maybe it was the fact that he had determined resistance and breaking points for all available fabrics and concluded that step in his experiment, or the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he showered or consumed anything besides coffee. Whatever the reason, he decided he needed some time away from the lab.

He showered (far too long since he had last done that), debated and decided against attempting to shave (the first time had been disastrous enough), and made his way outside. A little fresh air never killed anyone that he knew of. Besides, the house was isolated and it was dark out.

No one would see him.

He took a deep breath and marveled at the difference. When he spent so many hours in the lab, it stopped mattering. He forgot air could be clean. In the lab, even a slight breeze mattered. Whether or not Charles meant to re-build his team of mutant super-soldiers, Hank meant his design to be as perfect as possible.

Science did not have to have a certain real-world application. Science, for science's sake alone, ought to be as close to perfect as possible.

"Hi."

Hank jumped.

"Sorry. Thought you saw me."

It was a reasonable assumption: Scott sat on the grass not five feet away. The dark might have been an excuse, but he was easily visible in the moonlight. No, Hank had simply been too lost in thought to notice.

"What are you doing out here?"

Scott pointed straight up. "They're the same."

"The same?"

"As the stars in Omaha."

Hank realized how little he knew about Scott. He accepted the boy, liked him, but had not thought much about where he came from. Charles said it was a bad situation and Hank wasn't one to pry.

"Is that where you're from?"

Scott nodded.

Feeling impulsive—by his own standards, anyway—Hank sat nearby. "You know what happens when a star dies?"

"Stars die? I guess they would just go out. Like a light bulb."

Hank shook his head. "They explode. Stars are basically giant fires." He knew that was a rather simple presentation, but Scott was new to this. "When one runs out of fuel, it explodes, like… well… like if you were dying. Wouldn't you want to scream, in the end?"

Scott nodded again.

"And when stars go supernova—explode—when they do that, they create elements, the little things everything is made of."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"Like… rocks?"

"Rocks, the earth. People. We're made from the ashes of dying stars." Again, he had simplified, but Hank remembered when he first heard about chemical elements. It took weeks for him to really wrap his head around the idea that everything was made up of invisibly tiny particles.

Scott tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. Hank wondered if he was searching for a supernova. He used to do that. Although he understood the rareness of supernovae, Hank used to search the sky for one every night.

Apparently the lack of visible supernovae did not disappoint Scott, because he fell back in the grass, staring up at the non-exploding stars. Hank touched the grass and found it damp, but decided to lie down and watch the stars, anyway.

"So are trees," Scott said.

"Hm?"

"We're made of stars, but so are trees and coal and stuff."

"Yeah, but they don't know it," Hank retorted.

They were quiet for a while. Then Scott asked, "Where do stars come from?"

"I don't know," Hank admitted, which was strange. He knew how stars died. He ought to know how they were born.

"So… if we come from dying stars, d'you think there are other people who come from other stars?"

"You mean aliens?"

Scott thought for a moment. "I guess."

Hank did not believe in aliens. They were interesting in films, but not _real_. Rather than say as much, he replied, "The particles that made you came from millions of miles away. There could be people made from the same stars."

Scott laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Omaha."

"Omaha?"

"Yep. We're looking at stars that are a hundred million miles away. Suddenly, it's like, who gives a flying fuck that they're the same stars as Omaha's?"

The answer came not from Hank, as expected. "I'm sure I misheard you, Scott."

Scott and Hank both sat up. "I… I didn’t…" Scott stammered.

Hank offered, "Evening, Charles."

He wondered when he had last seen Charles outside. Hank and Charles shared a predisposition towards obsession—an excuse, perhaps, but the truth. They let dedication have the better of them. Yet there were two very different types of seclusion. Hank stayed in the lab until all hours, slept because he had no choice and popped back to the lab as soon as he woke because that was normal. It was Hank's version of normal.

Charles had that, too. His normal was not everyone else's normal. He had an 'abnormal', though, and Hank could not think of a single time Charles had left the house between coming home from the hospital and Scott's arrival.

Which was why Hank decided to shift the conversation from Scott's obvious discomfort. The kid was picking at blades of grass.

"He's just worried you'll swear tomorrow. He wants to impress Moira. Closest Charles has come in years to a girlfriend is taxi-dancing."

"Hilarious," Charles replied drily.

Scott twisted a blade of grass. Softly, he asked, "What's taxi-dancing?"

Hank glanced at Charles. The moonlight and starlight were enough that they could clearly see one another, but eye contact was out of the question.

 _You brought it up,_ Charles said in Hank's head.

Hank thought a growl, but Charles was right. Nevertheless—he liked telling Scott he was made of stardust. That was awesome. Taxi-dancing? That was just refined whoring. Hank understood that. Taxi-dancing was a business in which men who wanted to get close to women got close to women.

Did Scott even knowing what that meant?

Hank cleared his throat. "…it's nothing."


	18. If And If

"Moira, over the past few days, I think I've come to know Scott well enough to say that he's better off here. Certainly more so than in a state home! He's still learning to control his mutation and understand what he is. There aren't many people in the world who can offer the sort of guidance he needs. And he's happier here. I know you think he's a criminal—no, that's not right," Charles said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't bring that up."

If Moira wanted to make accusations, she could do that for herself. Sure, he knew she only saw Scott in terms of what he had done to that laboratory, but he was not going to provide his opponent with an argument. Whether he liked it or not, Moira _would_ be his opponent.

But not right now. Now he was alone, looking into the mirror and practicing what he would say to her when she arrived. She had not specified precisely what she wanted to talk about, but he knew that Scott's future remained an unanswered question.

Charles realized suddenly how protective he felt. Scott was such a good kid and the way he had been treated was deeply unfair and wrong. That was not going to happen again.

Now Charles needed only convince Moira, without revealing any personal information about Scott.

What could he say, then? That Scott was quiet, polite, and helpful? That he was at an educational disadvantage but more intellectual than he realized? That he had looked past Hank's appearance and befriended him, and Hank had really needed a friend?

Hank had someone to talk to and Charles found himself with a student. Academic conversations at someone else's level were surprisingly fascinating. Trying to explain things to Scott meant re-evaluating basic information he thought he understood, and teaching brought back some spark of the enthusiasm that had kept him so engaged as a student.

What was the rest of the world for a mutant, anyway? There were other men out there like Shaw. There was—the thought pained him—Erik, and while Erik would not hurt another mutant, _if_ he attacked humanity and _if_ mutation became widely known, Scott would not be able to hide.

Would Erik think twice if he could meet Scott? If he knew how his anger could bounce back against his own kind?

"He's just a kid."

The last time Charles tried to use that argument, the "kids" in question ended up in the middle of a battle between three superpowers. He counted the Americans and Soviets as superpowers, which seemed only fair. They had brought the nukes.

Charles sighed. Scott was safe here, was among his own kind, and seemed if not happy, at least less miserable. This was the best place for him. It was certainly better than going back to Milbury or being placed in another state home.

And if Charles was being completely honest, it wasn't just about what was best for Scott.

"For God's sake, Moira," he told his reflection, "I need him."

Scott was a cause, and Charles needed a cause. Everything made sense again when he had something to focus on. That wasn't to say he didn't care about Scott—what had he said?—'like a person'. The most important piece of this story was not what Milbury had done or that damaged building, or even finding a way to help the youth of a new species find its way.

The idea of the school had planted itself in Charles' mind. It _was_ going to happen. Charles knew that, the same as he had known at fourteen that there was not enough information out there on how people evolve, develop advanced thought and opposable thumbs and telepathy. He had been so sure that he would find answers, and he had. Now he was sure he would open a school, and he would.

None of that would have happened without a nervous, half-educated smart aleck—and Scott was, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He was a spirited kid.

Charles thought about it as he made his way to the kitchen. He was surprised he had room in his mind for any thoughts beyond an all-encompassing joy. Sure, Charles wanted to save the world, but that was a very abstract goal. A cup of tea, that was attainable and immediate. Still, he found himself thinking about her again.

_Pets are always cuter when they're little, right?_

Charles in no way blamed himself for Raven thinking that way. She was never a pet. She had been a friend, practically family. He called her his sister because it was easier than explaining that they had much more than friendship between them. Of course, putting it that way made it sound like they had been romantic, which was absurd. She was… well, family.

What he blamed himself for was not causing her thoughts. It was that he hadn't noticed. They had been so close once. There had been a time, before a few small things came between them. It was only his thesis and Moira and Erik and oh, nothing major, only the Cold War. Raven fell through the cracks. It was like that incident in the coffee shop when he took his eyes off of her for five minutes and her fingernails went blue. He got distracted.

The 'pets' metaphor, even if it had been true, hardly applied to Scott. Raven actually had been adorable. She was a peer. He had not exactly been popular at school. Not only had she been someone else with a special gift, she was a friend. A gawky teenager with bad skin was more like the dog with a torn ear and mange who stayed at the pound until the veterinarian gave him a syringe full of mercy. Besides, he was old enough to be Scott's father.

 _Scott's father._ Hah! If he had been somewhat more social as a teenager, anyway.

Charles filled the kettle and set it on the stove. Tea was practically the only thing he could cook without a disaster. It was a lucky thing, too: tea was the only thing he absolutely needed.

He was also, finally, finding his stride—or whatever they called that for a man in a wheelchair. He was finding his roll, Charles reasoned as he made his way outside without spilling his tea. It had been too long. He was too much looking forward to this cup of tea and was not about to lose it any of it to clumsiness.

The weather seemed to agree with him as to what sort of day this should be. It was unseasonably warm, the temperature hovering in the fifties like it had forgotten that this was New York and nearly Christmas. _Nearly Christmas,_ what a strange thought. The holiday did not mean much to him as more than an indication of time passing.

He looked around. Everything seemed so green today, like the grass refused to give up until winter drove it away for good. There was not a cloud in the sky. And Charles had company. He blinked. Had Scott been there the entire time? He was so quiet sometimes it was tough to say, but there he was now, sitting by the wall and hugging his knees.

"Good morning, Scott."

"Hi."

"All right?"

He nodded.

People said eyes were the windows to the soul. Charles had never given much thought to it, not particularly concerned with the concept of the soul. It wasn't true. Scott's eyes might be hidden, but his emotions were all over his face.

He was not all right.

Charles could guess why. He sipped his tea and thought about the way to word this. "You're concerned about Moira's visit."

Scott shrugged. "I guess," he said, the way teenagers do when they're not guessing. "I kinda like it here."

Scott had a way of stating positive things heartbreakingly. Charles did not expect much tact from someone his age, but there was a difference between clumsy phrasing and acting like there was something special in being treated with basic human decency.

At that comment, Charles just smiled. "Good. I'm glad to hear it."

"No…" Scott shook his head. "No, it's not good."

"Why not?" Charles asked.

Scott didn't answer. Charles sipped his tea and thought about it. He tried to think like Hank, since his own approach of reading Scott's mind seemed unfair. If he was going to tell this boy that he understood him, he ought to mean it. Like Hank had said, though, there simply was not enough data where Scott was concerned. What was so bad about liking things?

Suddenly Charles could have smacked himself for being so stupid.

"I'm going to ask you a question," he said, "and I'd like you to answer honestly. Whatever the answer is, it's all right. Just tell the truth. Do you want to stay here?"

Charles had devoted years of his life to education, to learning more and more about evolution, and had learned more than he knew existed about things that were relevant in ways he had not anticipated. It was all about asking the right questions.

He realized now that here was a question he had never asked. He had simply assumed, because… well, because it seemed so obvious. Much as he had focused on Moira's potential objections, though, he had never thought to ask Scott what he wanted.

For a moment, he seemed almost not to have heard. Then he nodded.

"Yeah. I'd like to stay."


	19. Only Human... or Whatever

For a while, neither Scott nor Charles knew what to say to one another. What Charles really wanted to say was that everything would be all right, somehow—but he had no reasoning behind that. He looked at Scott and wondered if anyone had ever in his life kept a promise to him.

"Earlier…" Scott trailed off. He shook his head, swallowed, and tried again, "Earlier, I was in the, uh, bomb shelter, and I was trying to do what you said and be peaceful? And I couldn't."

Charles was far from surprised. "It takes time."

Every other mutant he knew had some degree of control, Charles realized. Yes, Hank _could_ walk across the rafters by his feet, but he could also walk on the ground like anyone else. Raven sometimes lost control, but a person can't lose a thing without first having it. Sean, Alex, Erik, they all had some ability to regulate their gifts. Scott didn't. Teaching him was going to take that much longer because of it.

Unfortunately, Charles thought, feeling painfully old, that's a tough concept for someone so young. He understood that much. It wasn't easy for any kid to focus on "in due time" when it was followed by "you can control this".

Scott dropped his head down to rest against his knees. Charles was at a loss as to what he could say to make this any easier. Nothing would. Instead he maneuvered close enough to rest a hand on Scott's head. In some ways, it felt like an admission of defeat: _there's nothing I can do to make this easier for you_. But at least Scott wasn't completely alone anymore.

After a few moments, Scott collected himself enough to say, "You want me to believe it's a wonderful thing, but it's not. You call it a gift but it's not a gift. I can't control it and it hurts, it always hurts, and all I can do is destroy. I don't want to learn to control it, I want it to go away."

Charles couldn't fault him for that. Scott's ability had caused him a lot of pain.

"I know. I know you do, and I'm so sorry. I wish I could promise you that one day it'll be completely within your control. I just don't know if that's possible." Scott raised more questions than anyone Charles had ever met on the benefits of mutation. It was nature, it was empowering… but not for a boy, on his own, unable to understand. "But while you're here, you're safe, and you can stay as long as you want. I can promise that much, at least."

"What about Moira?"

That confirmed Charles's guess, at least: Scott didn't want to like it here because he might lose it. "What about her?"

"Hank says you like her." It sounded almost like an accusation.

"She's a good friend and a good person." He liked her in the way Scott meant, too, and realized if anything were to happen between them, that would mean a conversation with Scott—she frightened him.

"You're wearing a suit," Scott observed.

"So I am."

The implication was clear: _you're trying to impress her._ It was true, though not for the reasons he thought. Scott had a knowing look on his face and it was all Charles could do not to roll his eyes.

"Oh, hush."

"I didn't say anything."

"Well you weren't saying it loudly."

Scott laughed. He lapsed back into silence, his expression visibly shifting to concern.

"You're more important than Moira."

Scott raised his head sharply and Charles had the distinct impression that he was being stared at.

"What is it?"

Scott opened his mouth, but seemed not to be able to get words out. He offered a few half-syllables before, "Moira's your friend. You barely know me."

The answer was both obvious and elusive. Scott was right that Moira was Charles's friend, although now that he thought about it, he had only known her for a couple of weeks before the incident on the beach, not much longer than he had known Scott now. Why did it matter? He might not know Scott well, but he knew enough.

Why Scott over Moira? Moira didn't need help. Anyway, she would understand.

It was the right thing to do, but Charles had enough tact not to use that explanation. He didn't know why he cared about Scott, exactly. Psychology had never been particularly interesting to him, especially since as far as he knew, it was primarily about sex and toilet training and what did that have to do with anything at all? So with the path to understanding emotions totally useless, Charles simply accepted them. Even he knew not to say he pitied someone, though. He did, but Scott didn't need to hear that.

Charles drained his teacup and enjoyed the thought that he could, whenever he wanted, go make himself another cup.

"I suppose I don't feel that's true," he responded, finally. "Whatever Moira says, you don't have to leave. Nothing's going to happen to you. I promise."

It was what he thought Scott wanted to hear, but Scott was quiet. Poor kid was like the dog who catches the mail truck. What would he do, now that he had it?

What Scott did was look out at the trees. The highest, thinnest branches waved in the breeze. The house was fairly isolated, but Charles had always felt it was the trees that made that isolation tangible, not the distance. It wasn't about not seeing other houses nearby. It was about seeing something that wasn't other people.

When Scott spoke again, it was to say, "I looked it up, you know, in the dictionary. Taxi-dancing. It wasn't there."

Charles chuckled. "No, it wouldn't be."

"Please?"

Not knowing really seemed to be itching him. Charles thought back on what Scott had said the other day. _I was never very good at school._ Something must have been happening, what was going on at the orphanage maybe, because he was far too tenacious a student. He wanted information and wasn't giving up on it.

Granted, he was a teenage boy and probably thought he was learning about something unseemly, but he wasn't giving up easily. "It was before your time, popular during the Depression. Men would go to dance halls and pay for a dance. Ten cents."

"So why taxis?"

"The men were fares. The women were paid per dance, like a cab driver."

"And it was just dancing? Like… dancing, not kissing and stuff?"

"Different times," Charles explained. It was only 1962, but he could see the fifties fading—and he knew how a decade could change everything. His family had money. He had never been cold and hungry. He remembered it, though, back in the thirties, seeing that terrible poverty. He barely remembered, but 'barely' was enough. Then came the unity of the forties, everyone pulling together in the war effort, and the peace of the fifties, maintained by pretending it existed.

Charles had never felt like a part of the times. He felt like an observer. His telepathy and intellect, not to mention his family's economic status, set him apart. Nevertheless, something was coming in the sixties. Things were changing!

Whatever form that wave took, Scott had a chance to be a part of it. He was, in so many ways, just a normal kid. Non-conformity had not been a popular option in the fifties. Charles had never been particularly interested in fashion, but he tried to listen when Raven would go on about colors, and he had noticed hemlines rising. (Well, he was only human… or whatever.) Who was going to care about red sunglasses?

Charles turned to Scott, but Scott scrambled to his feet and darted back inside. A few seconds later, Charles saw the reason. A car approached, surprisingly cautiously given its driver: Moira had arrived.

 


	20. Code for Goodbye

If Charles had not been the last person to notice his feelings for Moira, it was only because Hank was so wrapped up in developing his would-be cure. About a week after the crisis, on a visit to the hospital, Sean admitted that he, Alex, and occasionally even Raven had joked about Charles and Moira's little crush. Hearing it from Sean, Charles realized just how true this was.

Scott had changed the equation. If protecting him meant going toe-to-toe (so to speak) with Moira, that was what he would do. Even had he nothing beyond personal loyalty to either of them, Moira was an adult and a professional, Scott a lost kid whose history proved that he didn't stand a chance in this world without someone looking out for him.

There was something more important, though. Of course Moira mattered, but Scott was a mutant. The American government would look out for its own; it would not look out for mutants. It stung, but he had no reasonable choice but to protect his own.

His morals had been lofty, a few short months ago. Real life had forced him to reevaluate those morals and a loss of innocence wasn't easy at any age. He had been viewing this as a battle, perhaps responding to Scott's anxiety with some of his own, and that led him to think of her not as a person but a threat.

When he saw Moira, everything suddenly simplified. He remembered his feelings for her—not the romantic feelings that had apparently been a well-meant team joke, but the simple warmth of a trusted friend.

"It's good to see you again, Moira."

"You, too. You look well."

Her eyes flicked between him and the chair, but it was better than being looked at like a china doll.

For a moment they remained in awkward silence. This was not a social call and both knew that, and although he did not want to hurt her feelings, Charles didn't want Moira in the house. She was his friend, someone reliable and trustworthy and brave… but she frightened Scott.

Instead he set down his cup and said, "I was just going for a stroll. Would you care to join me?"

With a knowing look, Moira replied, "I'd like that."

He read spy novels, as a boy. It all seemed terribly exciting in the books. Speaking to Moira now felt like speaking in code, but it wasn't exciting. It was heartbreaking. Seeing Moira, close enough to reach out and touch her, and being able to only hope she understood him… it was a long moment of loss.

Did she understand? He knew he didn't. Moira had a secret of her own, that much was written on her face. He considered reading her mind.

Instead, he showed his hand. "He's afraid you've come to arrest him or take him away."

Moira said nothing.

"But of course you haven't."

"I've been worried," Moira said. "You always want to see the best in everyone, but mutation can be dangerous."

Charles had not always been so respectful in the use of his telepathy. He had read people's minds out of nothing more than curiosity. So he disagreed with Moira, and with Erik who had said the same. He did not _want_ to see the best in everyone. He _knew_ it was there.

It was pointless to argue. He did not appreciate Moira suggesting he was naïve to prove her own point, but knew it only stung because it was true.

"Scott's just a child. He's no more dangerous than Hank." Actually, now that he compared the two, Scott was very much like Hank. Hank could rip people apart. Scott could blow up buildings. Barring extreme circumstances, neither would. "Honestly, Moira, he's… kind. Shy."

Shy: code for 'damaged'.

"I was hoping you would say that," Moira replied. She must have caught the surprise on his face, because she added, "I worried I had left you with a criminal. I'm glad I didn't. Besides, finding a place for him has been… challenging. There's a state orphanage in the city, but—"

"No. No, you can't put him back in an orphanage."

Charles had not considered what would happen to Scott if he left. Both he and Scott liked the current arrangement, and Hank seemed pleased enough with it, so there had been no need to consider alternatives.

At the thought of sending Scott to another orphanage, he felt suddenly cold.

It would be a betrayal. Charles almost wished he could tell Scott as much. He wouldn't—Scott wasn't likely to hear more than 'the possibility of you going to another orphanage'—but the possibility of betrayal mattered. It suggested loyalty.

"You've erased him from the police station. He's my responsibility," Moira reasoned. "But if you don't mind him staying here a while longer…"

"I don't mind," he assured her. "In fact, there's no need for you to think of Scott as your responsibility. I can look after him."

Moira looked unsure. "You're a civilian."

"I'm a mutant."

"Charles, I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to," he said.

In a way, she had asked. That very first night, what was it Moira had said? _He needs an advocate._ She had not asked him to take in a homeless and potentially dangerous mutant kid, but she had involved him.

Didn't Moira know him? When he found a cause, Charles no longer knew that 'casual' existed. Or maybe she did know him, but had forgotten.

"It seems so silly, doesn't it?" he asked. "A new race is emerging, people with extraordinary abilities, and we both know the world is no more ready for us than we are for it. _Evolution_ , Moira, right before our eyes—and I'm not going to let something as insignificant as a wheelchair distract me."

_Again,_ murmured the scathing voice in his head.

"What are you thinking?"

"When we started out, I saw minds like Scott's… I may have even seen him," Charles realized. He wasn't certain, though, because, "I left them alone. What we were doing wasn't for children. But there must be dozens of them out there, just as vulnerable and alone as any of us felt."

And they had felt alone. They had no way of knowing there were others: Raven, Hank… even Charles.

"I'm planning to open a school, sort of a mutant academy. It would be a place for mutant children to learn to control their abilities, somewhere people like Scott can be safe."

Moira made a sound like a slow gasp, not exactly the positive response he had been hoping for. But surely she, of all people, understood the need for a safe haven!

"I need to tell you everything," she said, very suddenly, like she had some major secret to divulge.

Charles suspected she just might.

"What is it?"

"The government's looking for you."

He nodded. That wasn't a surprise.

"They know I know where you are."

He knew there would be more and felt a chill of dread. This was worse than he had previously thought. The CIA had shown itself to be less than friendly towards mutants, but mutation was not a choice. By involving Moira in this, he had put her in danger.

She did not have to say so. He heard it in her voice.

"How bad is it?"

"I could go to prison—more likely I would just lose my job." She tried to make it sound unimportant. Her voice shook, and anyway, he knew how much she cared about her work.

Charles sighed. "Please believe that I never thought it would come to this."

"I know, and I never blamed you."

The words echoed. _I never blamed you._ Charles believed that people were responsible for their own choices and he believed he was responsible for what he needed to do now. It wasn't a choice, though. No, this was the opposite of a choice.

When the silence between them spanned a few minutes too many, Moira asked, "So how many students do you think you'll have here, once you get the academy up and running?"

"As many as I can manage." How many that was, he couldn't guess. There had been three of them before, if Alex, Sean, and Hank could be considered students. Hank was certainly not a student now. Scott was, but a very different sort of student—and imagining two of him was difficult.

That was the trouble with students. All of them were different. Scott was one thing. What would he do with _normal_ kids? Accepting that as many students as he could manage might well mean the one he had now, he added, "Possibly more."

Moira smiled. "Y'know, one day the government is gonna realize how lucky they were to have Professor X on their side."

That term again!

"I suppose I am a real professor now, aren't I?"

It was the pinnacle of unintended consequences. Raven tried to fit in and it left her questioning herself; Erik gave in to anger and left a good friend crippled; Charles followed his curiosity and ended up slapped with that title.

"Next thing you know I'll be going bald." Because the wheelchair wasn't quite enough. "We're still on the government's side, Moira. We're still G-men, just without the 'g'."

_Please understand, Moira._ Joking with her both felt good and damn near broke his heart. He thought of those novels he used to read.

'Stroll', code for 'you can't come inside'.

'Shy', code for 'damaged'.

'The government's side', code for 'your side'.

They needed a code for 'always'.

"No. You're your own team now." She did not understand. He heard it in her tone, that aching fondness and loyalty. "It's better. You're… X-men."

"Yes, I like the sound of that." He did, too, but there were more important things to discuss. "Moira, for us, anonymity will be the first line of defense."

_Hear me,_ he urged silently. He kept his telepathy to himself. It had no place here, in a conversation between two people who shared too many secrets to know how to speak to one another.

"I know." There was a ferocity there, loyalty, but not understanding. "They can threaten me all they want, Charles. I'll never tell them where you are. Ever."

Truly, she wouldn't—and that only confirmed for Charles what he had to do. Moira was perhaps the most understanding human he had ever met. He admired her dedication, tenacity, intelligence… he admired so many things about her.

"I know you won't."

Moira had done the right thing, the best she could, as long as Charles had known her. That was why he had to do the right thing by her, no matter how much it hurt.

And it did hurt.

"I know."

Code for 'goodbye'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'll be posting the sequel soon. If you've enjoyed my story--and this is 20 chapters in, so I hope you haven't slogged through and not enjoyed it--keep an eye out.


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